‘You can prove it?’
‘Glad to, if it comes to it.’
‘Here? Now?’
‘I’m afraid not. Put it down to pride. Say I’m being difficult. It won’t surprise them.’
‘Who’s them?’
‘Dunno, boss.’ Winter nodded at the surveillance photo. ‘Whoever set that up, I suppose.’
There was a long silence. It was like waiting for some kind of death sentence. Winter sat back in his chair, wondering whether it was too late to take up origami. At last, Faraday appeared to have made a decision.
‘I’m taking you off Coppice, at least for the time being, until we’ve got Mackenzie well and truly eliminated.’ He looked up. ‘We’ll talk again once I’ve made some decisions. Concentrate on Tartan, will you?’
‘The Givens job?’
‘Yes.’ Faraday offered a thin smile. ‘I’m sure there’s lots to do.’
Winter returned to his office, chastened. He’d rolled over for Faraday far too easily but he blamed that on the Bacardi. What was worse was the fact that he hadn’t a clue what might happen next. Surrendering the initiative, he thought grimly, is becoming a habit.
Babs was about to go into conference with a couple of DCs in the Incident Room. Winter waited until she’d gone, then slid the HSBC envelope from his drawer. He extracted the May statement and studied it carefully to make sure he’d got it completely right. Satisfied, he reached for the phone and dialled a mobile number.
‘Jake? That you? It’s Paul. You’re at work, yeah? Only I need a word.’
Jake Tarrant said he was busy. A traffic jam of bodies and a pile of paperwork he wouldn’t believe.
‘Sure, son. I’ll be fifteen minutes. Put the kettle on.’
The mortuary at St Mary’s lay in a gloomy cul-de-sac on the edges of the hospital site. The dead end offered turning space for undertakers’ vans and the refuse lorries that called for clinical waste, and security at the cheerless Victorian building had recently been strengthened after a break-in by an alcoholic in search of embalming spirit. Winter pressed the entryphone buzzer, sheltering from a thin rain.
Jake Tarrant was wearing clinical greys, a theatre cap with a tie at the back and a pair of blood-spattered wellington boots. He threw the door open, stepped over a coil of hosepipe, and ushered Winter in. The DC manoeuvred round a plastic-shrouded corpse on a trolley and waited for Tarrant to shut the main door. Beyond the laden trolley, inside the post-mortem room, he could see a bike parked beneath the window. It looked new.
‘That yours?’ He was following Tarrant into the tiny office.
Tarrant glanced over his shoulder and nodded.
‘It’s brilliant,’ he said. ‘Eighteen gears. Titanium frame. All the bells and whistles. Scares me to death just looking at it.’
‘Fast, is it?’
‘Expensive. Leave it anywhere in this city and you’re talking two locks. At least. Tea?’
Winter made himself comfortable in the office. A huge Pompey poster on the wall celebrated last season’s 4-1 epic against the Scummers and the side of a big grey filing cabinet had been decorated with an FHM calendar. Miss July, a hefty blonde, left little to the imagination.
‘I thought you’d get sick of bodies.’ Winter nodded at the calendar. ‘Your line of work.’
‘Cool, isn’t she?’ Tarrant was busy trying to find the sugar. ‘You should take a look at April. She’s black. See the arse on her.’
Winter resisted the temptation. Beneath the window the scabby carpet tiles were covered with what looked like building plans. A ruler, pens, and a pad of yellow Post-its lay beside them.
‘What’s this then?’
‘New mortuary, over at QA. The architects have come up with the shell of the building and we have to decide what we want inside.’
‘You moving then?’ This was news to Winter.
‘Next year. Then you’ll get your Home Office PMs back from Winchester. State of the art, mate. Regional showpiece. Computerised locator system. Designer tables. A hundred and eighty fridge spaces. Can’t wait.’
‘And what about this khazi?’ Winter gestured round.
‘Storage. Bit like now. All the routine PMs are done up at QA. They’re pushed for fridge space at the moment, so we take the overspill. Full house at the moment. Too many people pegging it. Sugar?’
Winter helped himself. ‘Thanks for yesterday.’ He tipped his mug in salute. ‘You were brilliant, son.’
‘Pleasure, mate. Sorry about the missus.’
‘Not her fault. Christ, who needs some fat old bastard barging in at three in the morning?’
‘Exactly what she said. Funny that.’
Tarrant had driven him back to Gunwharf first thing Sunday morning. As Jake’d backed the Fiat off the hardstanding outside the house, Winter had noticed the hint of a face behind the net curtains in the window upstairs.
‘I’ve still got your Pompey top,’ he reminded Tarrant. ‘I’ll put it through the washing machine and drop it off.’
‘Whatever.’ Tarrant had a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Keep it if you want. Little souvenir.’
Winter ducked his head, took a gulp of tea. His headache had gone now and he helped himself to a couple of Jammie Dodgers.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a question for you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘This bloke Givens. I’ve been going through his bank statements. One of the things you do.’
‘And?’
‘He seems to have bunged you some money.’
‘Yeah, I think I mentioned it, didn’t I?’
‘Not a hundred and eighty-five grand you didn’t. What was that about?’
The question hung in the air between them, Winter suddenly aware of the whirr of the extractor fans along the corridor.
Tarrant was looking pained. ‘Is this official?’ he said. ‘Only I’m not quite sure what you’re after.’
‘I’m after a clue or two about the money, son. You’re a bright lad. We’re dealing with someone who’s gone missing. A hundred and eighty-five grand makes people like me nervous. Motive’s a nasty word but I’m sure you know what I mean.’
‘Motive? Shit. The bloke was a friend of ours.’
‘Was?’
‘Is. Was. Whatever. That’s why he made the loan in the first place.’
‘A hundred and eighty-five grand?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What for?’
‘We’re thinking of moving house. In fact Rach has got her eye on a property down in Southsea. Better schools for the kids. All that crap.’
Winter nodded, remembering the estate agents’ details in the back of the Fiat. Growing family. Hutch of a starter home. Makes sense.
‘Was this a long-term loan then? Repayment schedule? Regular standing order? Paperwork? All that?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we hadn’t got round to it. For starters, it was just a whack of money. Tell you the truth, Alan didn’t seem fussed about it.’
‘A hundred and eighty-five grand? And he just gives it away?’
‘It wasn’t a gift. We’d have done the paperwork in the end, done it kosher. We’d have had to.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘Dunno.’ Tarrant shrugged. ‘I suppose that’s up to you lot. Last time we talked, you thought someone had done him. In fact you even had a name. Karl Someone.’
‘Did you mention that to Rachel?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’d upset her. She really liked Alan.’
‘Liked?’
‘Likes. As far as she’s concerned, he’s just gone off for a while.’
‘She saw a lot of him? Givens?’
‘Yeah, she did. He was mad about photography, took loads of shots of the kids. You see the stuff up the staircase? That was his.’
‘So he was round a lot then?’
‘Depends what you mean by a lot. Couple of tim
es a week maybe. You should talk to Rach. She felt really sorry for the guy. Thought he was a bit … you know … lonely. She’s big on waifs and strays, Rach. Cats, dogs, people, makes no difference. If it’s got a pulse, she’ll give it houseroom.’
‘And how did you feel?’
‘Me? I quite liked the bloke. We weren’t, you know, mates but he was all right. Inoffensive. Bit of a loner maybe. But that’s not a crime, is it?’
‘Not at all.’ Winter’s gaze had strayed back to the plans on the floor. ‘This money, Jake.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It could be a problem.’
‘How?’
‘Because it looks odd.’
‘You mean suspicious?’
‘Yes. This bloke Givens has gone missing. We’ve got a prime suspect, sure, and he’s been silly enough to do a copper so he’s going nowhere fast, but he swears blind he never laid a finger on the geezer.’
‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’
‘Of course. But you know the way we work. I’m part of a squad here, and there are other people who believe our Mr Ewart when he says he never even met Givens. Which means they’re going to go looking further afield.’
‘Presuming Alan’s dead.’
‘Of course. But that’s an assumption nasty bastards like us have to make every working day. Think the worst and you’re seldom wrong.’ He paused, took another gulp of tea, then put the mug to one side. ‘Listen, son, I’m here to mark your card, right? All I’m saying is that it might be better to have that money ready to give back. All of it. Whatever happens. You with me?’
‘But who do we pay?’
‘Givens, if he turns up and if he wants it. Otherwise … ’ Winter shrugged. ‘He’s got a solicitor. I happen to have the details. You could do worse than drop him a line, offer the money back. Is that a problem?’
Winter knew at once that it was. Tarrant was shaking his head.
‘No can do,’ he said. ‘The Southsea place I mentioned, Rach is dead set. We’re putting our place on the market this week. We’re going for a quick sale, one seven five. That’s a steal up our way.’
‘So why can’t you raise a mortgage? Like everyone else?’
‘Because I don’t earn enough. And no way is Rach going out to work. Not with two young kids.’
‘But you told me just now you could convert this money into a mortgage. Pay Givens back monthly. Kosher, you said.’
‘Yeah, but he’d see it our way, Mr W., you know what I mean? He’d cut us a bit of slack if things got sticky.’
‘So you’re telling me you can’t pay the money back? Not yet, anyway?’
‘That’s right.’
‘OK.’ Winter frowned. ‘But if we find a body, there’s going to be a problem. You know that, don’t you?’
‘How come?’
‘He’ll have an estate, probate, all that. Then you’re back in the hands of the solicitors and, believe me, they’ll come looking for the cheque.’
‘And what happens if Givens has just … ’ Tarrant shrugged ‘ … disappeared?’
‘Then he stays on the radar screen. He’s already on the Misper register. Officially, we maintain an interest. Circulate details. Keep looking. After a while, though, it gets to be difficult.’
‘So in the end … ?’
‘In the end, he just stays disappeared. The truth is that people go missing every day of the week. If I told you he’d become a priority, I’m lying.’
Tarrant nodded, saying nothing. At length he asked Winter whether he fancied another biscuit.
Winter shook his head. It was time to go. He stood up, lingering for a moment beside the desk. Then he laid a hand on Tarrant’s shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.
‘Fingers crossed then, eh? Let’s hope this mate of yours turns up in one piece. Either that, or he never turns up at all. Otherwise, my son, you’re fucked.’
Fourteen
Tuesday, 19 July 2005, 19.02
Faraday stood on the upper deck of the Gosport ferry as it nosed across the ebbing chop of the harbour. He’d made contact hours earlier with Willard, catching him in the back of a taxi headed for Waterloo. Faraday badly needed another meeting. He’d talked to Winter, he told Willard, and there were important decisions to be made. When Willard said it would have to wait until Thursday at the earliest, Faraday lost his temper. It was Willard’s idea to put Winter to the test. The least he could do was give the man some kind of hearing.
In the end, with some reluctance, Willard had agreed they should talk. He had a couple of items he needed to pick up from the boat. He’d drive across to Gosport. If Faraday cared to present himself at the main gate to the Hornet Sailing Club at half past seven, Willard would pick him up and take him down to the clubhouse. If he stopped throwing his toys out of the pram, Willard added, he might even buy Faraday a spot of supper.
The ferry berthed alongside the Gosport pontoon and Faraday joined the surge of late commuters as they jostled to step ashore. The last of the rain had cleared now and there was the promise of a glorious sunset beyond the shadowed tower blocks that dominated the waterfront. Faraday set off along the Millennium Walk that skirted the harbour, enjoying the freshness of the air. This time in the evening, across the water, Pompey was at its best, the sleek billow of the new Spinnaker Tower bone-white against the greys of the dockyard below, the tumble of pubs and houses in nearby Old Portsmouth glowing in the rich golden light. At moments like this, he thought, there was no finer place to call home.
The former HMS Hornet was tucked behind the westerly arm of the harbour entrance. Sheltered on all sides, it had become a haven for a couple of hundred members of the Royal Naval Sailing Association looking for good company and somewhere decent to keep their yachts. Faraday paused on the bridge that overlooked the marina, gazing down at the forest of masts below. Berths like these, so close to the harbour entrance, were gold dust, and membership of Hornet, he knew, was strictly controlled. Quite how Willard had managed to swing it was a mystery.
The new Head of CID met him at the gate. They walked down towards the clubhouse, Willard pausing to point out a neat-looking yacht on a nearby pontoon. It was clearly his pride and joy.
‘Moody 27.’ He smiled. ‘Beautiful manners. Sails like a dream.’
He’d bought a half stake, he said, from a chum of his who was currently holding down an important staff job with C-in-C Fleet on Whale Island. As a serving Commander, Rory naturally had the pick of the best party invites and was nice enough to include his new shipmate when the opportunity presented itself. So for twelve and a half grand, as Willard pointed out, he’d acquired not only his share in Pipsqueak, but a whole new raft of well-connected friends.
‘They’re nice people,’ he said. ‘Come and see my new club.’
The clubhouse was a low brick and timber building with a fine view of the marina. Willard took Faraday through to the bar and signed him in, exchanging nods and the odd remark with some of the faces around him. Willard’s ability to ride the social tide, his unerring instinct for the people who really mattered, had never ceased to amaze Faraday. He’d been coming to this place for no more than a couple of months, he thought. Yet already Willard was treating it like home.
Faraday ordered fish and chips and found a table beneath a line of framed photos featuring a variety of yachts. The bar was crowded, evidently visiting sailors from a club down the coast. Willard elbowed his way through the scrum, deposited two pints on the table. The food would be coming shortly.
‘Winter,’ he said, settling into a chair beside Faraday. ‘Tell me.’
Faraday recounted the conversation he’d had back at Kingston Crescent. Winter, he said, had readily admitted meeting Mackenzie on Saturday afternoon. Mackenzie had warned him off Mickey Kearns, and Winter, in turn, had told him to fuck off.
‘He said that?’
‘In terms, yes.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘I do.’
‘How come?’
‘Because Mackenzie, or people very close to Mackenzie, took it upon themselves to sort Winter out.’
‘I’m not with you. How, exactly?’
Faraday told him about Saturday night, about the van, about what happened afterwards.
‘That’s totally out of order.’ Willard hadn’t touched his beer. ‘Just who do these people think they are?’
‘That was Winter’s point.’
‘So why on earth didn’t he do something about it?’
‘He did. He talked to me.’
‘Two days later? Come on, Joe. This is beyond belief. He’s a serving police officer, for God’s sake. There are rules here. He can’t rewrite them. You call for the cavalry. You sound the alarm. You start making life extremely difficult for the likes of Mr Mackenzie.’
‘He had no direct evidence against him. The guys in the van were smart. He saw nothing, heard nothing.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re really telling me you believe him?’
‘Yes.’ Faraday nodded. ‘But this is where it gets interesting.’
He told Willard about the photos and the missing mobile. Both, in the right hands, were priceless ammunition. And Mackenzie, as it turned out, was the man with the loaded gun.
‘He called on Winter last night. For a social chat.’
‘I bet he did. He’s on a nicking.’
‘But why the rush?’ Faraday was smiling now. ‘Sir?’
Willard’s face darkened, the usual cue for an explosion of wrath. For a second or two Faraday feared the worst. Then the Detective Chief Superintendent seemed to relax. He reached for his beer, took a sip, put it down again.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’m listening.’
Faraday took his time. This is important, he told himself. Screw this up and Winter will be looking at his P45.
‘We still have a very big interest in Mackenzie, right, sir? Not because of Coppice. Not because we necessarily think he might have anything to do with what happened to Duley. But because he is what he is. Not a gram of cocaine comes into this city without Mackenzie’s say-so. And he has twenty million quid in the bank to prove it.’
‘Go on.’
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