‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘Old times’ sake, eh?’
Winter remembered the paternity certificate with Mike Valentine’s name on it, the match he’d used to try and light the bonfire under Bazza Mackenzie. Winter had done his very best to put Pompey’s drug king in front of a jury but Bazza seemed to have forgiven him too. Twice since he’d been back from the States, he’d run into Mackenzie, and both times Bazza had spared the time for a chat. Word on the street suggested that Bazza had tucked away his twenty million and washed his hands of the drugs biz, happy to prosper on the well-rinsed proceeds, and here was the living proof.
‘Totally legit, mate, that’s me,’ he’d told Winter. ‘Money coming out of my arse.’
Winter recounted the story. She nodded and reached for the Moët, laughing.
‘So what’s the matter with him, Mist?’
‘I dunno, he’s just changed. You seen him recently? He’s got a sensible car, sensible haircut, nice suits, hasn’t gone clubbing for months. Christ, he even shaves in the morning.’
‘You’d know that?’
‘Of course I’d know that. He’s put a bit of weight on too. Nothing drastic but if you know where to look … ’ Her fingers curled round the stem of the glass and she smiled.
Winter wanted to know where she was living. Gunwharf had been the last love nest before Bazza threw her out of the waterside penthouse apartment and Winter knew first-hand just how addictive the views could become.
‘Arethusa House again, is it?’
‘No way.’
‘Why not?’
‘I fancied something out of town.’
‘Like where?’
‘Hayling Island.’
‘You’re kidding. You have to be ninety before they let you over the bridge.’
‘Piss off. You know the bit down the bottom? Where all the money is?’ Misty named a road that ran down beside Langstone Harbour. ‘Baz has had a bit of land there for a while, planning permission, the lot. There’s an old place on it at the moment but I’ve got this really great architect, Southsea bloke, and he’s done the makeover.’
‘Like how?’
‘Like swimming pool, outdoor jacuzzi, huge conservatory round the back. You should see the views. Right on the water, it is.’
Winter was trying to picture the area. On a sunny day, he thought, she’d have a perfect view of Faraday’s place.
‘You’re living there now?’
‘Not yet. Baz reckons a couple of months. They’re still finishing off. Place looks a tip at the moment. You know what his blokes are like.’
Winter nodded. Mackenzie had fuelled his empire on cocaine profits but like the rest of Pompey’s business community he was busy turning every spare penny into bricks and mortar. He had a couple of building firms, staffed exclusively from the Sunday league football teams he still ran, and his blokes were as erratic with their timesheets as they were unforgiving on the pitch.
‘So where are you at the moment?’
‘Milton. Scuzzy fucking place I’m supposed to be doing up. You want the truth? I hate it.’
‘So why stay?’
‘Because it’s free. Doesn’t cost Baz a penny. Plus it gives him a conscience. Like he’s going to owe me for a very long time.’
Winter was trying to imagine Misty getting herself involved in DIY but gave up. When he enquired further, she put him right. Baz had picked up the house, she said, as a business debt. Just now, he’d done some deal with a bunch of Buckland lads who fancied a modest stake in the property game.
‘They’ll come to grief because they’re clueless,’ she said ‘But Baz just doesn’t see it. Real blind spot. Tell you the truth, I’ve been surprised.’
‘So why is he doing it?’
‘Dunno. They’re brain-dead, these kids, all mouth and trousers and absolutely no fucking idea. With Baz, though, it’s all arm’s length. These days he has to be careful. You know what I mean? Strictly investment, nothing hands-on. Maybe that’s where the kids come in. Where Baz has got to, he doesn’t need any of that hassle. It’s OK for him but I bloody live there and they’re driving me mental.’
Winter, unusually, was lost.
‘We’re still talking property with these kids, Mist?’
It was Misty’s turn to look pained. She extended a hand. Purple nail varnish. A ruby the size of a bird’s egg.
‘No, Paul.’ She gave his hand a little squeeze. ‘We’re not.’
Seven
Friday, 15 July 2005, 07.48
The trill of his mobile did nothing for Winter’s bursting head. He rolled over, felt blindly on the floor, tried to focus on the clock beside the bed. Quarter to eight. More or less.
‘Who is it?’
‘Jimmy. Listen. Ewart’s car.’
‘Who?’
‘Ewart. Karl Ewart … Paul?’
Winter had struggled out of bed. Groping his way into the bathroom, he was just in time to throw up in the loo. Sinking to his knees on the cold tiles, he tried to remember exactly who Ewart was. Coppice? Tartan? Fuck knows.
‘Paul? What’s going on there? You OK?’
‘No.’
Winter shut his eyes a moment, tried to quieten his churning stomach, failed completely. He bent forward, vomited again, then felt a little bit better. He eyed the soupy remains of last night’s meal before his hand found the flush. Scallops in white wine. What a waste.
‘Paul? Speak to me. What the fuck’s happened?’
Jimmy Suttle again. Winter got to his feet, steadied himself on the basin, reached for the toothbrush. The face that looked back at him from the mirror managed a weary smile.
‘Jimmy?’ he managed. ‘I’m wrecked.’
Suttle was belling him on the entryphone within minutes. Winter checked the video screen in the hall, then let him in. He’d managed to find his dressing gown and had run a comb through his hair but for once he’d resisted the temptation to pull back the curtains on the view. All that daylight was more than he could cope with just now.
One glance at Suttle told him he was in for a bollocking. The young detective sat him down on the sofa, then found a box of Ibuprofen in the kitchen.
‘Where, exactly?’ Suttle was asking about the pain.
‘Here.’ Winter’s fingers found the bony ridge above his eyes.
‘And bad, you say?’
‘Evil.’
‘You’ve thrown up again?’
‘No.’ Winter winced with pain as he shook his head. ‘Not yet I haven’t.’
Suttle looked at him a moment longer, then disappeared into the bathroom. When he came back, he had a wet flannel. He sat beside Winter, sponging his forehead. Winter could feel the trickle of icy water down his chest. Suttle paused a moment, his other hand fumbling with his mobile.
Winter watched him, alarmed.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Phoning for an ambulance.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ You’ve forgotten last year? The pains? Exactly the same place? Throwing up eight times a day? Shit, mate … ’ He shook his head, thumbing 999.
Winter managed to wrestle the mobile from his grip. When a voice asked him which emergency service he was after, he grunted an apology. False alarm, love. Wrong number. Sorry. Then his hand found Suttle’s knee and he gave it a reassuring pat.
‘Self-abuse, son. My fault completely. How about some tea?’
Suttle, as Winter had anticipated, was angry. The medics had warned him off too much booze and yet here he was, tying on a big one with absolutely no fucking thought for the consequences. Most people with half a brain would listen to advice like that, but not Paul Winter.
‘What was it did the damage, as a matter of interest?’
‘Bacardi. Neat.’
‘Bacardi? Since when did you start necking Bacardi?’
‘Misty had a bottle she’d been saving. We ended up round her place.’
Mention of Misty Gallagher brought Suttle to a halt. He’d been pour
ing the tea in the kitchen, shouting at Winter through the open door. Now he stepped into the lounge, astonished. Winter, full length on the sofa, gestured at the line of drips from the kitchen.
‘Mind my carpet,’ he said.
‘Why Misty?’
‘Just fancied it.’
‘Bollocks, you fancied it. She’s back with Mackenzie. Did you know that?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter had closed his eyes, the flannel still clamped to his forehead. ‘She told me.’
‘So what’s your game? You get blind drunk. You end up with Bazza’s bird. Are you after a slapping? Or are you just stupid?’
The question pained Winter. He struggled up onto one elbow. Jimmy Suttle, a couple of years ago, had been foolish enough to mess around with Misty’s Trude for a couple of months. Winter had tried to warn him off but Suttle hadn’t listened. Days later, a couple of Bazza’s mates had put him in hospital.
‘A slapping? You should know, son.’
‘Exactly. So why risk it?’
‘Because … ’ Winter frowned, remembering the pair of them falling out of the cab last night. After the American Bar, they’d gone to a couple of other pubs. Bacardi at Misty’s place sounded like a nice nightcap. Wrong. ‘Listen—’
‘No, you listen. Some people in this job think you’re a pillock for even coming back. They tell me you’ve got the perfect ticket out. Early retirement. Disability allowance. Pension. Cushty. So why screw all that up by working for a living? Me? I know they’re wrong. Or at least I thought I did. Are you listening to me?’
Sobered, Winter had managed to get to his feet. He was grateful for all the attention but he was better now so maybe they could start all over again.
‘Tea first,’ he said. ‘Then you can tell me about Ewart.’
Karl Ewart, it turned out, was driving an X-reg. Astra. House-to-house enquiries in Ashburton Road had unearthed a retired district nurse who’d seen him backing into her brand new Renault. She’d had it out with him on the street, got a mouthful in return, but taken the registration number and reported it to the police. Nothing much had happened but she still had the number and nursed a powerful grievance against the hooligan in the basement flat across the road.
‘So what happened to the car?’
‘Someone torched it last night. Ewart probably. Disused quarry round the back of the hill. Dickhead left the plates on.’
‘Any sign of Ewart himself?’
‘None. Word round the pubs says he’s into small-time drug deals - delivery boy, dial-a-snort.’
‘Using the car?’
‘Presumably. He’s not popular, our Mr Ewart. A lot of blokes can’t wait to grass him up.’
Winter wanted another cup of tea. Jimmy Suttle was part of the four-man squad that Barrie had put together to get a fix on Givens’ disappearance. So far they hadn’t traced any of the season tickets but knew that Ewart had been flogging them. At this rate, said Suttle, they’d be waiting until the start of the new season to name-check bums on seats.
‘That’s September, son.’
‘August.’
‘Still a month away. What does Mr Faraday think?’
‘He thinks Ewart’s on a nicking, like we all do. Sooner or later he’s convinced the arsehole will turn up at that doss of his again. We’ve put a camera in across the road. Nice old boy on the second floor. Me?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got the day shift. Nine till whenever.’
Winter’s brain was beginning to work again. He picked up the flannel and disappeared into the bedroom. When he came back, he was carrying a slip of paper. He gave it to Suttle.
‘What’s this?’
‘Ewart’s mobile number. I lifted his top-up card and talked to Orange. He bought a new card a couple of days ago so the phone’s still active.’ He managed a grin at last. ‘Might turn out handy, eh?’
Mid-morning, feeling almost normal, Winter rapped on Faraday’s door. He’d gone to his own office only to find an overweight DC called Babs sitting behind the spare desk. He wanted to know why.
‘Reinforcements.’ Faraday had barely looked up. ‘Mr Barrie thinks you could do with some help.’
‘He’s not happy with what’s he’s getting?’
‘On the contrary, he’s very impressed. Just thinks you might need a hand with the paperwork.’
Winter frowned, looking for a trap. Hangovers always made him paranoid but in these situations you never took anyone at their word. Spare bodies were thin on the ground. How come Babs had been plucked from her other duties?
Faraday tidied the report he’d been studying and slipped it back into an envelope.
‘Sit down.’ He nodded at the spare chair. ‘We ought to talk.’
‘About Tartan? Jimmy Suttle briefed me this morning. Said you’ve put surveillance into Ashburton Road.’
‘That’s right. My feeling is that Ewart may be drawing benefit. I want you to action that, find out whether it’s true or not. If it is, he might have to go back home to pick up his giro.’ He paused. ‘What about Givens’ bank account? We’ll need statements going back beyond the last one.’
‘I’ve applied for a production order. Should get the details out of HSBC within a week or two.’
‘Good. Did Suttle tell you about the car?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think it’s well dodgy. If he’s been running coke round the city, he’d need wheels. That means there has to be a very good reason for trashing the Astra.’
‘Givens?’
‘Exactly. You roll the bloke, give him a hiding, overdo it a bit, and you’ve got a body on your hands. What then? You fetch the motor, stuff him in the back and wonder what the fuck to do next. Either way, he’s leaking all over the boot. That’s serious DNA. Even Ewart would work that out.’
‘But we still haven’t got a body.’
‘Sure, boss. And now we haven’t got a car.’
Faraday was toying with a pencil. The logic, he knew, was beyond argument. Everything in this city, he thought, goes back to the swamp where youths like Ewart screw themselves a living. Petty theft, assault, even murder, it made no difference. Time and again, the same shaven heads, the same pinched faces, the same cold eyes. He pushed the pencil away then sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head, staring out of the window. Thank God for Mark Duley, he thought. At last a hint of something new.
‘Let’s talk about Coppice,’ he said. ‘What’s your feeling?’
Winter hesitated a moment. He’d been anticipating this conversation for the best part of an hour and wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.
‘I had a drink or two last night,’ he said carefully. ‘With an old mate.’
‘And?’
‘Bazza Mackenzie’s at it again, arm’s length, putting together investment syndicates.’
‘Did he ever stop?’
‘Yes, it seems he did, just for a while, but you know the way it is, boss. He goes into legit business, looks at the profit margins and then pisses himself laughing. The powder makes him more in a week than most blokes see in a year. Local businessmen stick money in the hat, rich arseholes like Chris Cleaver, ten grand a time. Bazza adds his own stake, then the pot goes to some little scrote down the pecking order who fancies becoming a drug baron. He buys wholesale, sorts out the distribution, takes his profit, then returns the stake and a fucking great divvy at the end. Money for nothing.’
‘So who was this mate of yours? And how come he knows so much?’
‘She, boss.’
‘She?’ Faraday raised an eyebrow, waiting for a name, but Winter shook his head.
‘This is kosher. I swear it. That’s all you need to know.’
‘And Coppice? Mr Duley?’
‘The kid Bazza is staking at the moment probably sources from the Caribbean, like they all do. You want the details?’
‘Don’t fuck around, Paul. Just tell me.’
‘Odds on, he’s using an island off Venezuel
a. Isla de Margarita.’
‘Where Duley went?’
‘Exactly.’
Faraday reached for a pen. Like Winter, he wasn’t a great believer in coincidences.
‘You mentioned a kid. Who is he?’
‘I haven’t got a name. Even pissed, she wouldn’t tell me. But I know where to start looking.’
‘Where?’
‘In that class Duley was teaching. Apparently Bazza’s little helper is a Buckland boy.’
‘You’re telling me this kid goes to local history workshops once a week?’
‘No chance. But I bet he has a friend who does.’ He got to his feet. ‘Think about it, boss. Say the lad’s buying from the locals in Margarita. He can barely manage his own language, let alone Spanish. He needs someone along with him, and that someone must have been Duley.’
‘We’re sure Duley speaks Spanish?’
‘Positive. I talked to the translation agency in Southampton. Spanish and French. He was fluent in both.’
Suttle and DC Dawn Ellis had been sitting in the stake-out for nearly two hours by the time the hooded figure with the brand new Nikes appeared at the corner of the street. Ellis readied the camera then reached for the binoculars. Standing well back in the old man’s living room, shadowed by the fall of curtain, she was invisible from below.
Suttle stood behind her. The face beneath the hood looked unshaven. Beyond that, it was impossible to pick up any real detail.
Even with the binos, Ellis was equally unsure. Might be. Might not. Suttle dug in his pocket, found his mobile, produced a scrap of paper with a line of figures.
‘I think he’s slowing,’ Ellis said.
‘What’s happening now?’
‘He’s stopped. He’s looking for something. He’s got a mobile. Someone must have belled him.’
‘Me.’ Suttle was holding his own mobe at arm’s length. Genius, he thought. Pure genius.
‘He’s going down the stairs into the flat.’ Ellis was back behind the curtain. ‘He’s inside now. I’ve lost him.’
‘Right.’ Suttle was using the Airwave radio this time, talking to the DS on the Coppice Outside Enquiry Team. They’d worked out the details earlier. Suttle had done the recce. All he needed was a couple of blokes round the back.
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