Borrowed Light

by Hurley, Graham

  The CSI, looking for a second bedroom, had found Sadler’s office. Venetian blinds on the single window. PC on the desk. An Ikea filing cabinet in the corner. Very neat. Not a single concession to sentiment or unnecessary decoration.

  Suttle slipped behind the desk. The PC was still live and a face hung on the screen. It was the girl, Kaija Luik, exactly the same shot Suttle had seen earlier in Faraday’s office, and Suttle stared at it, wondering if this little gesture was deliberate, an electronic adieu from someone who, after a full week, still remained a total mystery.

  The CSI was going through the filing cabinet. So far he’d found detailed records from the business including bank statements, tax computations, VAT printouts, profit and loss accounts, payment schedules, remittance slips and a couple of spreadsheets offering a glimpse of where Two’s Company might be heading next. Suttle knew at once that he’d need financial specialists to make proper sense of all this. There was doubtless more on the PC’s hard disk, but time was short and overnight he’d only have time for a brief trawl for relevant material before the interview team got a proper crack at Sadler. He was asking the CSI to bundle up all this material when his mobile began to chirp. He checked caller ID. Faraday.

  ‘Parsons wants you to talk to Winter.’

  ‘About the bin liner?’

  ‘Yeah. And the girl’s phone he took.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We’re assuming Pompey.’

  Suttle was watching the CSI pull yet more paperwork from the filing cabinet. If the two D/Cs manning Gosling’s intel cell were expecting a night’s sleep, they were in for a shock. Faraday was waiting for an answer. Suttle told him about the intel haul and asked about the hovercraft shedule. Faraday told him to seize the paperwork and the RIB photo and send it back with the CSI. As for the hovercraft to Southsea, there was no crossing after 20.20. Best, therefore, to take the 21.15 RedJet catamaran to Southampton and then cab it across to Pompey.

  ‘Done, boss,’ Suttle said, checking his watch.

  Winter had settled in for a night in front of the telly. By half ten, coshed by a plate of beef in chilli noodles delivered from the Water Margin, he was ready for bed. For once in his life he hadn’t had a drink. The videophone buzzed at 10.47. Winter, half-asleep in front of Newsnight, struggled to his feet. They’re late, he thought, checking his watch. He padded down the hall and checked the screen. To his surprise, he found himself gazing at Jimmy Suttle. The boy looked soaked.

  ‘You,’ he grunted, buzzing him in.

  ‘Me,’ Suttle agreed, ducking out of the rain.

  Winter had the door open and a towel ready.

  ‘You’ll catch your death,’ he muttered. ‘Me? I was just off to bed.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Suttle was drying his mop of red curls. ‘It could have been worse. It could have been me and the Ninjas.’

  Ninjas was cop-speak for the Force Support Unit, the house-entry guys in full body armour, who were rarely in the mood for conversation. Winter felt pained by the very thought.

  ‘She wouldn’t be that spiteful, would she?’ He was looking at the row of lagers he’d readied in the fridge.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Parsons.’

  ‘She might.’ Suttle tossed him the towel, refused a bottle of Stella. ‘Where do you want to do this?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Yeah. Here if you don’t fuck around. Otherwise it’s the Bridewell.’

  ‘You’d have to arrest me.’

  ‘Absolutely my pleasure.’

  ‘D’you mean that?’

  ‘Yes, I fucking do. What are you up to, Paul? First you turn up in Ryde, picture of fucking innocence, just happen to have heard about a fire or something. Next thing we know, you’re poking round a key witness then nicking off with what you know might be a crime scene. Am I right here? Or have I missed something?’

  Winter was amused. Master and pupil, he thought.

  ‘Sit down, son. And don’t shout. The neighbours hate it. It might be news to you but we pay a fortune for peace and quiet in this neighbourhood.’

  Suttle stared at him, then took a seat in the corner of the sofa. Winter settled in the armchair. He hadn’t touched his Stella.

  ‘In your place, son, I’d have gone for open account first,’ he said. ‘I’d have asked me to explain my movements, every single one, and then I’d have listened very hard until I tripped myself up.’

  ‘But you won’t, will you? You won’t trip yourself up.’

  ‘So why are you here? Apart from the apology you’re about to make?’

  ‘Apology?’ Suttle looked blank.

  ‘For the techies. For the sneaky-beaky. I don’t know whether it’s budget cuts but we used to be quite good at B & Es. In-out, bish-bosh, job done. You know about rule one?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Always check the bedrooms.’ Winter lifted his bottle. ‘Cheers. Mist sends her love. Here’s hoping those guys are still in a job.’

  Suttle smothered a yawn and rubbed his eyes. Winter knew exactly how he felt.

  ‘Long day?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Getting anywhere?’

  ‘Don’t be a twat, Paul. Just give me credit, eh?’

  ‘Fine, son. So how can I help you?’

  Suttle was half-watching the television. Jeremy Paxman was getting indignant about overpaid bankers. Winter reached for the remote and turned the set off.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘You went to see Nancy Percival, right?’

  ‘The old lady in Cowes? The one who rented the room to Luik?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Winter nodded. ‘I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I had grounds for thinking the girl had been there. And as it transpired, I was right.’

  ‘Stop talking like a cop.’

  ‘I was a cop, son.’

  ‘Then tell me why the girl was of any interest. What was Luik to you lot?’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Is.’ Suttle shrugged.

  ‘You think she’s dead?’

  ‘Just answer the fucking question, Paul. And stop twatting about.’

  ‘You do think she’s dead.’

  Suttle gave him a hard look, made a point of checking his watch.

  ‘I can have a car here in five,’ he said. ‘It’ll take a while to get you booked in because no one down there likes you very much. Then there’s the brief. Then there’s disclosure. And then you’ve got eight hours straight on one of those poxy mattresses in one of our nice new cells before we even begin to get down to the business.’

  ‘I know.’ Winter nodded. ‘I was down there yesterday.’

  ‘At the Bridewell?’ Suttle was at sea again.

  Winter explained about the crash on the M275: 90 mph in Bazza’s Bentley and a photo from one of the ANPR cameras to prove it. This was plainly news to Suttle.

  ‘Did you kill anyone?’

  ‘No, thank fuck.’

  ‘Injuries?’

  ‘Minor.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Me, son? I was lucky. I’m still here, talking to you.’

  Suttle went back to Kaija Luik. He wanted to know why Mackenzie thought she was so important.

  ‘Mackenzie didn’t. I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Luik was screwing Johnny Holman, and Holman is very definitely important to Mr M.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In every way. They go back years, centuries, for fucking ever. You’ll have seen the file. You’ll have done the association chart. You know Bazza. He can be a handful sometimes but deep down he’s loyalty on legs. Holman was having a rough time – his own fault mostly, but you don’t look too hard when you’ve been mates. Then the guy gets burned to death, and that pisses you off somewhat, then it turns out that he wasn’t in the house at the time, and that starts you thinking.’

&nbs
p; ‘About what?’

  ‘About what’s going on with your mate Johnny. About exactly what’s happened to the old cunt. And about the various ways you might be able to make life a bit sweeter for him.’

  ‘Very touching.’ Suttle didn’t believe a word.

  ‘But true, as it happens. So guess who gets the sharp end of all this? Guess who finds himself on that fucking hovercraft again?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Yeah, son. Little me. Why? Because I’ve got to find Johnny. And how do I do that? I go looking for his girlfriend. And how do I know her name? Because you told me.’

  ‘I did.’ Suttle nodded. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘OK.’ Winter nodded, his point made. ‘Next?’

  Suttle wanted to know how Winter got to Nancy Percival’s place. Winter explained about his hour with Monique Duvall. Suttle shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘That was on expenses?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Lovely. Outstanding.’

  ‘I bet. So the mobile you nicked took you to Luik?’

  ‘To the old girl. That was luck on my part and shit work on Lou Sadler’s. Luik had left her mobile under the pillow. Like I said just now, always check out the bedroom.’

  ‘So you paid the old girl a visit?’

  ‘Yeah. We had a little chat, like you do, and she gave me the rest of the stuff.’

  ‘The bin liner?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And the mobile?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Which you took away?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it might take me a step closer to Luik. And if that happened, I might even lay my hands on little Johnny.’ He held his hands wide, an expression of the purest innocence. ‘Job done.’

  ‘So what was in the bag?’

  ‘Clothes.’

  ‘What kind of clothes.’

  ‘Her clothes. Luik’s clothes. Or so I assume. You want to look? Give me a receipt and take the fucker off my hands? Only you’re more than welcome, son.’

  Suttle studied him for a long moment.

  ‘The old lady told me she found the bin liner in the garden. Why would that be?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, son. I’m not a detective. D’you want this sodding bin liner or not? Only it’s way past my bedtime.’

  Suttle gazed at him. Winter wondered whether the last five minutes was worth a round of applause. The boy looked exhausted.

  ‘There’s something that really interests me,’ he said at last, ‘something about you and Mackenzie.’

  ‘And what’s that, son?’

  ‘I think you’ve had enough.’ He glanced at his watch and then reached for Winter’s bottle of Stella. ‘Would that be right?’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  TUESDAY, 17 FEBRUARY 2009. 05.17

  Faraday awoke before dawn, aware that something seemed to have changed. The tenement at the back of the hotel was in darkness. Beyond, he could see the orange glow of the Ryde street lights. From miles away, out in the Solent, came the parp of a ship’s hooter; closer, the whine of a car changing down through the gears for the roundabout. He rolled over and checked the alarm clock beside the bed.

  He rubbed his eyes, wondering why he felt so fresh, so rested, so free from the constant tug of anxiety that had shadowed him since the accident. Then he had it: Gosling had turned a corner and he was back at the controls of a machine for which he had a profound respect. Get the next twenty-four hours right, he told himself, and his life might be his own again.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at the carpet, aware that since Oobik’s arrest he hadn’t spared Gabrielle a moment’s thought. He’d been too busy, too alert, too aware that he couldn’t afford a single distraction. In the past this degree of concentration had been a huge mental drain; now, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, it seemed to have revived him. He reached for the towel he’d abandoned on the nearby chair. A shower, he thought, then an early start.

  Winter, at about the same hour, was lying in bed listening to the growl of an early Fastcat as it made its way down-harbour for the crossing to Ryde Pier. Jimmy Suttle had left before midnight, pocketing Luik’s mobile but scarcely bothering to inspect the contents of the carefully soiled bin liner. They were both aware that this was an artful piece of theatre, and Suttle was wise enough to know that Winter would have taken every possible precaution to shield himself and his boss from any kind of charge, but the essence of the evening had come later.

  Suttle, to Winter’s quiet satisfaction, was a detective of quality, mindful of the investigative possibilities that lay in the friendship that had somehow survived Winter’s journey to the Dark Side. He’d probed the older man with care and, Winter thought, genuine concern. He’d wanted to know why the buzz of working for Mackenzie had begun to fade. He’d gently suggested that the guy had some seriously vicious habits that no amount of money or political ambition or gruff Pompey wit could disguise. And he’d pointed out that sooner or later, come what may, Mackenzie would crash and burn. Did Winter want to be part of that? Was the prospect of getting old in a prison cell that enticing?

  At first Winter had kept him at arm’s length. How could Suttle possibly assume that anything had soured between him and Bazza? And what kind of betting man would take a serious wager against Mackenzie going from strength to strength? Serious criminals, he told Suttle, were in a different league to the Men in Blue. The best of them, class acts like Mackenzie, were perfectly equipped for the cut and thrust of business. They were bold, they knew the moves, and they weren’t afraid to pay good money for the best advice. In a bare handful of years they could emerge untainted from the mud and bullets they’d left behind. No more racing round Pompey, chasing up drug debts. No more strong-arm tenant evictions to free up this property or that. Just a busy, diligent, civilised ascent to fame and fortune.

  Suttle had laughed at this and wished Winter luck. Then, getting to his feet, pocketing Kaija’s mobile and then picking up the bin liner, he’d said something else. He and Lizzie were going to have a baby, a little girl. And if everything worked out, they’d be honoured if Winter would consent to be a godfather.

  If everything worked out.

  Winter lay in the half-darkness, listening to the distant roar as the Fastcat picked up speed, wondering exactly what the lad had meant.

  Faraday was at his desk in the SIO’s office by six o’clock. Soon he’d have to drive over to Newport for the interviews, but for now he needed to review overnight developments. On top of the pile of paperwork on his desk was an interim report from the intel cell on Martin Skelley. One of the D/Cs must have worked half the night to get this thing done, Faraday thought, wondering whether the seized accounts from Sadler’s office had got the same treatment.

  He fired up Parsons’ coffee machine and settled down to read the report. Martin Skelley was a Scouse bad boy from a big Catholic family in Toxteth. By his late teens, according to intelligence reports from the Merseyside force, he’d been running a tyro protection racket, extorting weekly insurance ‘premiums’ from terrified local shopkeepers. One Sikh, braver than the others, had told Skelley to get lost, an act of neighbourly defiance that had put him in hospital with injuries described in the intel report as ‘briefly life-threatening’. Violence on this level had provoked a robust CID response, and Skelley – who’d personally inflicted the bulk of the damage – got a hefty stretch for GBH. He’d served the early part of this sentence at HMP Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight, then a tough Category A prison. He’d held his own against the usual army of bully boys and assorted psychotics and had emerged virtually intact.

  Criminality plagued his twenties, but prison had taught him a great deal about not getting caught again. His talent for violence and his taste for the good life took him into drug dealing – mainly cannabis and cocaine – and by the end of the 90s he’d managed to wash and invest a serious amount of money. Some of
it went on the purchase of a successful car auction franchise, operating nationwide. The rest bought him a fleet of refrigerated vans, from Transits upwards, which became the backbone of a company called Freezee.

  Faraday broke off to pour himself a coffee. Skelley’s genius lay in realising the potential of the regular, reliable and above all cheap delivery of cut-price fast-food packs nationwide. This was the kind of stuff that went to roadside burger stalls, fairground outlets and the tens of thousands of inner-city caffs that made a living by dishing up this crap. These people always dealt in cash. There were no hassles about credit terms or unpaid invoices. Either you paid for the stuff on the spot or the van drove away. If Skelley could undercut the opposition, and he could, then he was perfectly placed to make a second fortune.

  And so it had proved. Freezee had gone from strength to strength, and the corporate website now boasted of more than 170 vehicles nationwide. Treat yourself to a cheapo burger in Aberdeen or Penzance, and the chances were that the thin greasy disc of beef and gristle had been delivered by Martin Skelley.

  According to the intel D/C, Freezee had bought Skelley the lifestyle of his dreams. The company was run from a trading estate near a major motorway junction outside Manchester. Skelley had a trophy penthouse in one of the city’s new canalside apartment blocks, plus a sprawling house tucked away on the shores of Derwent Water in the Lake District. He got around in a brand new Porsche Carrera and kept a decent-sized day cruiser on a private mooring at his lakeside home. But it was his first property purchase that caught Faraday’s eye. In 2002, with Freezee gobbling up more and more of the market, he’d bought nine acres of the Isle of Wight in the shape of Upcourt Farm.