The silence hung between them. Then Winter’s mobile began to ring. He looked at it. Misty Gallagher.
‘You want to take that outside, mush?’ Mackenzie nodded at the phone. ‘Only I’m really busy.’
Chapter Fourteen
THURSDAY, 12 FEBRUARY 2009. 11.07
Parsons was raging. Linked in by conference call, Faraday could imagine the scene in her office at Fratton nick. A D/S called Dave Michaels was responsible for the surveillance teams. He’d been hauled in from Totton for the full treatment.
‘So what happened? Pretend there’s some fucking excuse here. Talk me through it.’
Parsons never swore, hated the F-word. Faraday glanced up at Suttle. Suttle was grinning. This must be worse than bad.
‘I talked to the guys on the night shift just now. As far as they’re concerned, Mackenzie and Gallagher left last night.’
‘You’re telling me they saw her?’
‘The Bentley went past in a pretty big hurry. The lighting wasn’t great.’
‘So was she in there? In that car? Did they see her?’
There was a brief silence. Michaels was an old hand, lots of experience, brilliant in interview. Not this one though. Not with Parsons about to throttle the life out of him.
‘It might have been a question of inference.’
‘Inference? Since when did obs have anything to do with inference? You lot cost us a fortune. The least we expect is you keep your eyes open. I can’t sell inference to Mr Willard. Or a jury. Or anyone else for that matter. So tell me, D/S Michaels, what actually happened?’
‘One of the guys thought she was in the car.’
‘And the other one?’
‘Caught short.’
‘Christ. So let’s go back to the first guy. He sees the car. It’s a Bentley. It obviously belongs to Mackenzie. Right colour, right reg plate. It comes shooting past him with Mackenzie at the wheel, and because he’s got shagging rights on Misty Gallagher he assumes she’s in there as well. Am I right?’
‘You could be, boss.’
‘So what does that make your D/C? Apart from lazy and stupid?’
‘Pass. I’ll be having a word.’
‘You bet your life. You know what happens now? You know what we have to do? Call off obs on Winter. That’s great, isn’t it? After just … what … twelve hours? Brilliant. Total result. Congratulations, D/S Michaels. I imagine Mr Willard may well be in touch.’
Faraday heard the scrape of a chair. Dave Michaels would take this on the chin. He’d doubtless been in worse scrapes and in a couple of months the scene at Winter’s flat would have become the stuff of legend. Couple of techies caught in the act. Misty Gallagher all over them.
In the meantime, as Parsons had pointed out, surveillance on someone as astute as Winter would have to be abandoned. The way things were going just now he’d probably haul them off to court. Trespass with intent. Or some evil infringement of human rights legislation.
‘Joe? Are you still there?’ It was Parsons. Michaels had evidently dropped out of the conversation.
‘Yep.’
‘Pathetic, don’t you think?’
‘Not great.’
‘Not great? Where have you been recently, Joe, apart from the inside of an Egyptian hospital? Winter’s home free again. And this time he hasn’t even tried.’
Faraday was looking at Suttle. Was now the time for Suttle to table his belief that Winter’s days with Bazza Mackenzie were over? Suttle shook his head, put his finger to his lips. It had been Faraday’s idea to invite him along to the conference call. Just now he’d prefer to stay anonymous.
‘So what do we do, Joe? Any ideas?’
Faraday brought her up to speed on the burned-out Corsa. He had a POLSA team combing the woods. He had detectives on house-to-house in a slowly widening area around the forest. And he’d tasked another team to return to the CCTV centre in Newport, hunting – once again – for the Corsa. Their working assumption put the car somewhere to the north or east of the island, where most of the population lived. For the last couple of days it must have been in a lock-up of some kind. Given a glimpse or two on CCTV, and they might be able to narrow the search.
‘And?’
‘Nothing so far, I’m afraid. Early days though.’
‘Nothing from the house-to-house?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about intel? What about Suttle?’
‘He’s still building the picture. He thinks the key to this thing is Holman. And from where I’m sitting, he’s probably right.’
‘Great. Keep in touch, eh?’
The phone went dead. Faraday sat back in his chair and looked at Suttle.
‘Did that sound about right?’
‘Perfect, boss.’ Suttle was looking thoughtful. ‘You’re doing OK.’
Winter sat on the hovercraft, bouncing across the Solent towards Ryde. After a brief phone exchange with Misty outside Mackenzie’s office, he’d just had a longer conversation. She’d told him about the guys in the white overalls and what they’d done to the wall light, and he’d known at once what they’d been up to. These were the sneaky-beakies you put into suss premises when you wanted the full SP. He’d worked with them on a few occasions himself. It meant that Major Crime had decided to target him big time, but thanks to Misty the whole thing had turned to rat shit. Misty, bless her, had a simpler take on all this. It was, she told Winter, a fucking outrage.
Winter knew he’d been lucky. So this morning’s lone figure on the waterfront had, after all, been on obs. Quite how long they’d had him under surveillance was anyone’s guess, but they’d been wasting their time so far, and now he was off the hook. Even Hantspol were bright enough to figure that from here on in he’d be careful where he put his feet.
The hovercraft roared up the ramp beside the Ryde terminal. Winter joined the dribble of disembarking passengers and sauntered along the seafront towards the cab rank. He waited until the first three cabs had gone before bending to the fourth and giving the driver an address in Cowes. As the cab pulled away, he twisted round in the back seat, watching the road behind. Nothing. He turned back, making himself comfortable, enjoying the prospect of the next couple of hours.
Last night, in bed, Winter had asked Misty about Lou Sadler. According to Bazza, she and Sadler had once been mates. Was that true?
‘Yeah. She was a headcase, that woman, but bright. She had a thing about jet skis too. She kept one down at Ocean Village, taught me how to do it. We used to bomb up and down Southampton Water, me on the back. She was nuts, Lou. She used to get behind one of those hydrofoils that go out to the island. If you ride across the wake and get it right you take off. Incredible. Shakes your arse to fucking pieces. Brilliant.’
Winter had asked her about Two’s Company and she’d nodded. It was, she said, a makeover for a previous escort agency called Island Babes. Both operations had been Internet-based, with thumbnails of the girls on offer. Punters chose a tom they fancied, followed the prompts and turned up at one or other of the rented rooms. Payment was on a sliding scale depending on what you were after, and there’d been a limit of one hour for each session. Misty, who knew the guy behind Island Babes, thought it served the tackier end of the market. Some of the girls, she said, were real dogs, and if you were looking to make sensible money from this kind of investment then you had to take the business upmarket.
Lou Sadler, it seemed, had done exactly this. Two’s Company was still an online operation, but the toms were far classier and Sadler made sure they kept their standards up. Many of them, according to Misty, had arrived from the old communist bloc, eager to sell their talents on the free market, and feedback from one punter she knew well had been enthusiastic. This guy, she explained, was a leading Pompey lawyer. He had money to burn, plus a raging coke habit, and had found the fuck of his dreams in the shape of a redhead from Minsk. She was funny as well as dextrous, and he was close to proposing something more permanent than busy afternoons in a Cow
es motel.
Winter sat back, enjoying the journey. There’d been no sign of a Kaija Luik on the Two’s Company website he’d checked this morning, but he knew these girls regularly changed their names. Word from Misty suggested that it was a happy ship and that they all knew each other. If that was true then his afternoon date might turn out more than helpful. Her name was Monique Duvall. Winter had chosen her because she had a pretty face and claimed to speak good English. A recent encounter with an Uzbek girl in Dubai had come to grief when a linguistic misunderstanding over her rates had threatened to land Winter with a four-figure bill. They hadn’t even made it as far as bed.
The taxi dropped him outside a hotel on the outskirts of Cowes. He gave the driver a decent tip and ignored the wink. At reception, as instructed, he asked whether Room 18 was available. The guy behind the counter looked young enough to be a student. He had a light American accent. He gave Winter the room key, took an imprint of his credit card and told him that £200 bought him the girl for an hour, room included. After that, he said, he was on the meter.
Winter took the lift to the first floor. The room was clean if a little bare. The bowl of fruit included three bananas and he thought at once of Misty. In the early days, before they’d settled into each other, she’d taught him an awful lot about bananas.
He took off his jacket and his shoes, and wandered across to the window. The hotel was perched on a hillside above the Solent and he watched the long white stripe behind a departing car ferry slowly disappear. He was still thinking about Misty when he heard a knock at the door.
Monique was taller than he’d imagined but he’d got the smile right. She stepped into the room without a word of introduction and folded her raincoat carefully over the back of the chair. She was wearing the kind of white Lycra top that Winter had last seen in the gym at the Royal Trafalgar and a pair of tight jeans. The black leather belt was wide, with a silver buckle. Expecting an outbreak of bling, Winter was comforted by her simplicity. She had a single silver piercing in one ear and she’d barely bothered with make-up. Misty had been right. Classy women.
She beckoned him towards her, kissed him on the mouth.
‘Hi,’ she said.
Winter had been in two minds about what was going to happen next. He’d set off with the intention of getting down to a little chat but all of a sudden it seemed churlish to complicate things too early. They had an hour. Plenty of time to talk later.
She peeled his clothes off, one by one, then asked him what he’d like. Full service was in the price but she liked a man to tell her what he really wanted.
Winter said he didn’t care. Her choice.
‘You have a condom?’
‘No.’
‘I have.’
She led him towards the bed and then fetched her bag. Naked between the sheets, Winter watched her extract a couple of paperbacks before finding the packet of condoms.
‘How many?’
‘One’s fine.’ He gestured beyond the white hump that was his belly. ‘All yours, love.’
The girl put the condom to one side. In the event, minutes later, Winter didn’t need it. The girl smiled, wiping her chin.
‘Maybe next time?’ She was looking at the other condom.
Winter nodded, relaxing back against the pillow. The last occasion he’d met a girl like this was years ago, in a brothel in Old Portsmouth. Her name had been Maddox. Their relationship had begun in an interview room at Central police station and ended in bed, and they’d stayed very close for a while. She, like Monique, knew how to put a man at ease. She also devoured books, and went nowhere without a paperback or two.
‘So what are you reading?’ Winter nodded at her bag. If he still smoked, he thought, then this would be the perfect moment.
Monique laughed.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I just do. I’m nosy that way.’
‘Nosy?’ She touched her own nose.
‘Curious.’
‘Ah …’
She hopped out of bed and retrieved the books from her bag. She had the most perfect arse.
Catcher in the Rye and a book in French. He picked it up. Michel Houellebecq.
‘Is this one a novel?’
‘Oui. And very dirty.’
He thumbed through it. She’d turned over a page towards the end. Winter was wondering about the condom but knew he mustn’t get carried away. First things first.
‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘There’s a girl you might know.’ He softened the question with a smile. ‘Kaija?’
‘Kaija? Kaija Luik?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want to meet her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
Monique turned her head away. Winter couldn’t work out whether the tiny pout signalled disapproval or disappointment. Why another woman so soon? Wasn’t I good enough for you?
He found her hand under the duvet, gave it a tiny squeeze. He said he had a friend who went with Kaija.
‘Who is he, this friend?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘You won’t tell me?’
‘It wouldn’t be right.’
‘But you ask me about Kaija. And I tell you. I say yes, I know Kaija. So why don’t you tell me about your friend?’
‘Because …’ Winter feigned embarrassment. He was enjoying this. It was much, much easier than he’d thought and – God willing – he knew exactly where it might lead.
Monique was up on one elbow. She had small firm breasts and an all-over tan.
‘This friend of yours, he’s the same age?’
‘As Kaija?’
‘As you.’
‘Yes. Pretty much.’
‘And he …’ She was looking deep into Winter’s eyes, warier now. ‘… he sees Kaija a lot? Goes with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘A small man? Short? Little? Not so handsome here.’ She touched Winter’s face. ‘Yes?’
Winter remembered the photo on the TV news the other morning. It was a shot from way back. These days, thanks to oceans of Stella, Holman was doubtless even more wrecked.
‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘His name’s Johnny. Johnny Holman.’
‘And you say he’s a friend of yours?’
‘He used to be.’
‘But not now?’
‘No.’
She nodded, thoughtful. Then she looked at her watch.
‘He’s horrible, this man. You know that? You know how horrible he is?’
‘To you?’
‘To Kaija.’
‘So why does she go with him?’
‘Because she’s sorry for him. Because she’s stupid. He’s always drunk, this Johnny. And he smells.’ She lay back against the bedhead and folded her arms. ‘You’re a cop, aren’t you? I know cops. My brother’s a cop. In Vilnius. You know Vilnius?’
‘I’m not a cop.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘I used to be, but I’m not any more.’
‘A private cop, then. That’s why –’ she swung her legs out of bed and stood up ‘– you ask me all these questions.’
Winter was looking at her watch. He still had half an hour. He nodded down at the bed.
‘Are we going to do it again?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I need a wash. I want to go.’
She disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. Her bag was on the carpet beside the bed. Winter found her mobile beneath a ball of tissues. He reached for his clothes, pulled on his trousers, pocketed the phone. By the time Monique returned from the bathroom he was standing by the window, fully dressed.
‘So where do I find Kaija?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true. I try to phone her on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. She owe
s me money. I phone again this morning. She never answers.’ She shrugged. ‘So maybe she’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘I don’t know. Home maybe?’ She offered a bleak smile. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Cop.’
Chapter Fifteen
THURSDAY, 12 FEBRUARY 2009. 15.02
The Scenes of Crime team released Monkswell Farm in mid-afternoon, a little later than expected. After nearly four days on site, examining every square inch of what remained of the property, sieving through a small mountain of sodden ash and miscellaneous debris, the Crime Scene Manager had bagged what little evidence he’d found and sent it over to the Major Incident Room in Ryde. All that remained for the team now was to tidy up the site, get rid of the police tape, hitch the SOC caravan to the tow vehicle, and make their way back to the car ferry. A call from the duty Crime Scene Coordinator had already put them on standby for a bloodfest in Aldershot. A squaddie returning three days early from Afghanistan had discovered his wife in bed with a fitness instructor. Happy days.
Meg Stanley too was returning to the mainland. She’d called into Ryde police station to say goodbye to the core management team who’d been driving the investigation since the weekend. Now she’d got as far as Faraday’s office and was waiting for him to come off the phone. Last night she’d had a quiet drink with Jimmy Suttle and was a little wiser about his personal circumstances.
Faraday at last put the phone down. If you measured progress by the number of calls he was getting, he said, then Gosling should have been home and dry by now.
‘You look much better,’ she said at once.
‘Really? What did I look like before?’
‘Terrible. Pale. Exhausted. Not well at all.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I mean it. You know what was the giveaway?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Your hands. You were doing this all the time.’ She made a washing motion with her hands. ‘That’s OCD in my book.’
Obsessive-compulsive disorder. One step along the road to madness.
‘And now?’
Borrowed Light Page 17