‘Where’s all this going?’ he asked at last. ‘Why the interest in Unwin?’
‘Because we need to talk to him.’
‘But why? What’s he done?’
‘Is that anything to do with you?’
‘Yes, if it brings you here.’
It was a fair point. Tracy Barber edged Pelly back on track.
‘How well do you know this Chris Unwin?’ she asked.
‘Who’s saying I know him? You?’
‘OK.’ Barber rephrased the question. ‘Do you know Chris Unwin?’
‘As it happens, yes.’
‘So how well do you know him?’
‘So-so. He comes here sometimes, visits his gran.’
‘And what does he do for a living, Unwin?’
‘He drives a van.’
‘He owns the van?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘What does he do with the van?’
‘Fuck knows. Deliveries? House clearances? Removals? Weddings and funerals? How am I supposed to know? What it boils down to is this, love. The guy drops by. His granny asks us who he is. They have a cup of tea together. He gives her a kiss, tells her he loves her, and fucks off back to the ferry. That’s how families work in this country – and I’m the one to know because it’s people like me who look after the cast-offs. These old dears are scrap, they’re gash, they’re surplus to requirements. One day we’ll put them in bins on the seafront. For the time being they still come to us.’
‘Does that upset you?’
‘Not me, love, not me personally. It’s a living; it’s what I do. But on their behalf? Of course it fucking does. I love ’em to death, the old dears, anyone half decent would.’ Pelly shifted in his chair. ‘You know what I think about Alzheimer’s, really think? I think it’s self-inflicted. My old ladies have seen what people are really like, their own bloody kith and kin for God’s sake, and they’ve decided to pull the blanket over their head. Alzheimer’s is a way out. It wipes the slate clean. And from their point of view, not before bloody time.’
‘You’re telling me Chris Unwin comes regularly?’
‘Came. He’s stopped lately.’
‘Why’s that?’ It was Faraday.
‘God knows. Maybe he’s got better things to do. Maybe Pompey in the Premiership has gone to his head. Maybe he’s fallen in love, got a puncture, signed up with Al-Qaeda – how am I supposed to know?’
Faraday was gazing at a snap Blu-tacked to a corner of the marker board, waiting for Pelly to calm down. The photo showed a sleek-looking motor launch, bright yellow, tied to a buoy. Some kind of cabin up front, a big expanse of open deck at the back.
Pelly followed his eyeline.
‘You into fishing at all?’ he enquired. ‘Only I can do you a deal. Couple of hundred quid and I can take you to sea the whole day. That’s cheap, believe me. Bait and rods supplied. Bring half a dozen mates and you’ll have a ball. This time of year, I can guarantee cod, maybe even a knackered old bass. You know how many fish the last lot came home with?’
Faraday ignored the question. Barber asked Pelly where he kept the boat.
‘Bembridge,’ he said. ‘It’s on a mooring. Costs an arm and a leg. That’s why I do the charters. Best to make your hobbies pay, eh?’
Barber scribbled herself a note. Pelly turned back to Faraday.
‘You want to know about Unwin? I’ll tell you. The bloke’s a waste of space. He’s an idiot. He’s one of those people you know right off he’s got a screw loose. But fair play to the lad, he’s been over here to see his old granny, and there aren’t many people who do that, believe me.’
‘I thought you just told me no one cares?’
‘They don’t, by and large, but at least Unwin had a stab at it; went through the motions.’
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘Can’t remember.’ Pelly was back with the worry beads. ‘Where are we now? February? Must have been way before Christmas, maybe October, maybe earlier. That’s the thing about this game. Close your eyes, count to ten, and there’s another year gone.’
‘Did you ever have a row with the man?’
‘A row? About what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Faraday paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘Was there ever a time when you were together in here? Having a bit of a shout?’
‘Who says?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘It does to me, my friend. And you know why? Because it’s not true.’ He paused a moment, staring at Faraday. ‘Is that why you’ve come? To check out some piece of gossip about Unwin? Me and him having a ding-dong? Is that it?’
Faraday held Pelly’s gaze. Under different circumstances, he thought, this man could be truly scary.
‘Do you have an address for Unwin?’ he asked at last.
‘No.’
‘And you’re absolutely certain nothing ever –’ he gestured at the space between them ‘– happened between you?’
‘Absolutely one hundred per cent fucking certain. And you want to know why? Because getting involved with inbreds like Unwin isn’t what I do. Listen, I’m a busy man. I run a couple of businesses. This is one of them. I don’t have the time to fuck around with conversation, and if you want the truth it isn’t something I miss. So, if you’ll excuse me—’
Barber headed him off.
‘Two businesses, Mr Pelly?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what’s the other one?’ She nodded at the boat on the board. ‘Fishing?’
‘Fishing, my arse. Fishing’s a hobby, like I say, an excuse to get away. But what’s it to you what else I do?’ He stared at her, daring her to come up with an answer, then he looped the worry beads round one finger, pushed the chair back and propped his feet on the edge of the desk. ‘Listen, love, this is for once and once only, OK? One of my companies runs this place. The other is an employment agency. Both are privately owned. We have books, an accountant, two VAT numbers, and we pay a small fortune in taxes. Talk to the Revenue. Talk to the people at the town hall. Talk to whoever you fucking like. I don’t owe anyone a penny. I’m fully paid up. In fact I probably keep half the country going, the amount they take off me.’
‘Employment agency?’ The question came from Faraday.
‘Sure. Casual labour. Blow-ins. Overners. People who come looking for sunshine and a job.’
‘English people?’
‘Not necessarily. I take anyone, doesn’t matter what their colour is, where they’ve come from. As long as they’re honest – fair day’s work, fair day’s pay – I’m happy to oblige. People on this island are crying out for labour and you know why? Because the locals can’t be arsed to get out of fucking bed in the morning. It’s the blow-ins who need the money and I’m the bloke in the middle who makes it all happen. Capitalism in action. Sweet, eh?’
‘The foreigners have paperwork? They’re legal?’
‘Of course they fucking are. You think I’m stupid?’ He stared at Faraday for a long moment. ‘That’s Morgan again, isn’t it? I can hear the little tosser marking your card. Did you pay him, or what? Only if you did I only hope for his sake that you made it worth his while.’ He leaned forward, swung his legs off the desk, white with anger. Then, quite suddenly, he seemed to relax. Even managed a smile.
‘You know what Morgan did?’
Faraday shook his head.
‘Tell me.’
‘He came sniffing round my wife. He was clever. He dressed it all up, pretended they had mutual friends, made it look the most natural thing in the world for her to pop down the pub and have him buy her a drink or two. And you know what I told him when I found out? I said you lay a finger on my wife, one finger, a glance even, and you’ll be avoiding mirrors for a very long time.’ He gazed at Faraday, the smile broader. ‘You didn’t notice when you met him? Or was it so dark you couldn’t see the little twat?’
*
Winter had been waiting for nearly an hour before Maddox finally arrived
. The Lime Tree Café occupied a sunny corner of Albert Road, a mile or so of antique shops, hippy outlets, record stores and cheap ethnic restaurants that reminded older residents of the glories of the Fulham Road before the big money arrived. Winter, who was clueless when it came to London chic, had an altogether earthier take on the area. Albert Road figured in most of the volume crime he’d tackled as a DC on division and nothing much had happened since to change his opinion. Whether it was fenced gear, dodgy meat or a vanload of contraband fags off the ferry, this was where you sold it.
Maddox was wearing an ankle-length black leather coat, lace gloves and a huge pair of dark glasses that seemed to hide half her face. She might have stepped out of the pages of Hello magazine the morning after a particularly savage party.
‘You’re meant to be skiing.’ Winter was on his feet.
‘I blew it out.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Do I get to hear it? Only I’ve been here a while.’
‘My fault.’ She slipped off the gloves and put her hand over his. Her flesh was ice cold and the moment he looked harder he knew that something was badly wrong. There were cuts on the back of her hand. A couple of nails had been torn.
Maddox watched him inspecting the other hand, then she took off the glasses. A couple at a nearby table caught her image in the mirror behind the tiny counter and swapped glances. One of her eyes was nearly closed, the cheekbone beneath purpled with bruising. The other eye, less swollen, seeped a thin straw-coloured liquid. Maddox produced a tissue and gave it to Winter.
‘Do you mind? I keep missing.’
Winter dabbed at the eye. You had to get into something serious to end up looking like this.
‘You want to tell me what happened?’
‘Not really, if you want the truth.’
‘So why phone?’
‘Good question.’
For a long moment Winter thought she wasn’t going to come across. He’d been wrestling with a truly brutal headache since lunchtime, a particularly vicious pain that jellied his stomach, and the last thing he needed just now was this.
He gestured her closer, whispered in her ear.
‘I’m going to count to ten,’ he murmured. ‘Either you tell me what happened or I’m off. One other thing.’
‘What?’ She was staring at him. She looked terrible.
‘I get to keep these.’
She almost laughed. Winter slipped the glasses back over the wreckage of her face, then reached for his car keys.
‘Somewhere quieter.’ He’d taken control. ‘Your place?’
She lived in an imposing block of 1960s flats on the seafront. Winter hadn’t been to Rose Tower since he’d arrested a retired scrap dealer for funding a race-fixing scam at the city’s greyhound stadium. From the tenth floor the view was sensational.
Maddox dropped the blinds. The low winter slant of the sun hurt the one eye that still worked.
‘You don’t mind an early dusk?’ She dumped her coat on the zebra-skin sofa, a blurred figure in the half-light, and stooped to a lamp on the nearby table.
‘Not in the least.’ Winter rubbed his own eyes and wondered whether to ask her for half a dozen aspirin but decided against it. ‘Where did you get those?’
He was looking at a series of framed sepia prints, stepped across one wall. The photos showed scenes from a sand-blown treeless township in the middle of nowhere. It looked like desert country, maybe Africa. In one shot, a native in a turban was posing between two camels. In another a hollow-eyed white man in the rags of a shirt peered out of a gloomy interior. The table at which he sat appeared to be the only furniture in the room.
Maddox followed his pointing finger. She’d uncapped a bottle of Armagnac but seemed to be having trouble finding the right glasses.
‘Remember you asked me about the face on the T-shirt the other day?’ She nodded at the figure seated at the table. ‘That’s Rimbaud. He was a poet. Packed it all in and went off to Abyssinia. Lord of all he surveyed. Sort of.’
‘But why’s he on your wall?’
‘I’m doing a PhD on him. At the university.’
‘You’re telling me you’re a student?’ The very idea made Winter take the weight off his feet. He found a chair by the window, some kind of antique, immensely uncomfortable.
‘Mature student.’ Maddox had settled for cut-glass tumblers. ‘I got a BA years ago.’
‘Here?’
‘Bristol.’ She poured a hefty measure of brandy and passed him the glass. ‘This is to say sorry for keeping you waiting. If you want the truth, I nearly had second thoughts.’
‘About talking to me?’
‘About going out. Every girl has her pride. Even me.’
There was a hint of self-pity in her voice that didn’t sit comfortably with a grand’s worth of leather coat and a flat that gave you a seat in Southsea’s dress circle. Actress, Winter thought, tucking the proposition away for later.
He tipped his glass to her in a silent toast and then swallowed a mouthful of Armagnac, relishing the way it torched a path down to his belly. Almost at once he began to feel better.
‘You gave someone a smacking,’ he suggested peaceably. ‘And then they smacked you back.’
Maddox was in the kitchen now. He could see her through the half-open door. She was looking for something in the fridge. She seemed to have an obsession with making people feel good.
‘You like hummus?’ Her battered face appeared at the open door.
Winter hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
‘Love it,’ he said.
A plate arrived within seconds, a moist little hillock of beigy paste on a crescent of pitta bread. Another followed, a hastily chopped salad, garnished with parsley and pine nuts.
‘Apologies for the tomatoes.’ The scowl made her face even more lopsided. ‘This time of year they’re like bullets.’
‘You still haven’t told me.’
‘I know. I’m getting there. Think opera.’ She nodded down at the plate. ‘This is the overture.’
She left the room. When she came back she was wearing baggy jeans and an oversize pullover. Winter’s second mouthful of Armagnac had slipped effortlessly down but about the hummus he was less certain.
‘You know something?’ Maddox curled up on the sofa, unpeeling a banana.
‘What?’
‘You make me very nervous.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not nervous like you might think. You don’t exactly make me nervous. It’s a holistic thing – something not quite right. Not with me, but you. Am I making any sense?’
‘None. You gave me a bell, begged for a meet, and here we are. Is that a problem?’
‘Not at all. But you’re angry, I can tell. Either that or you’re hurting. Am I right?’
In spite of himself Winter had to smile. She was more right than she could possibly know, though the last thing he planned to do right now was own up.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘This is a freebie, totally off the record. I know what you do for a living and there’s nothing there that’s going to put you in the shit. On the other hand I’m talking bollocks, aren’t I?’ He nodded at her face. ‘Because you obviously are in the shit.’
Maddox eased her head back against the plumpness of a cushion.
‘You’re right. But in my defence I’d no idea.’
‘About what?’
‘That it would come to this.’ Her hand briefly fluttered under one eye. ‘You think you know someone, read them well, understand them. Then, wallop, it all kicks off …’
She turned her head towards the window, abandoning the banana and reaching for a box of tissues. Winter watched her, dimly beginning to understand.
‘Who are we talking about?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘Wishart.’
‘You’re right.’ She sniffed. ‘Very perceptive, Mr Winter. The lovely M
aurice. He of the Centurion Amex card and pigskin upholstery. Who’d have thought, eh? A man of his many talents.’
‘Arsehole.’ Winter reached down for his glass, surprised by the numbness in his fingertips. ‘He really thumped you?’
‘Last night. In this very room.’
‘Why?’
‘Because … ?’ She frowned, turning the word into a question. ‘I don’t know, I just haven’t a clue. Truthfully. It’s a mystery to me. One minute we were talking about some gallery he wanted to take me to. The next I’m flat out on the carpet down there wondering what the fuck’s going on. This wasn’t playtime. He wasn’t kidding. He meant it.’
‘Did he say anything? Had anything kicked off earlier? A row maybe?’
‘We don’t row. It’s not in the contract.’
‘Was he pissed off, then?’
‘About Friday night, definitely. That’s why he came round. He thought it was gross, what happened at Steve’s place. An outrage.’
‘He thought it was gross.’ Winter began to laugh.
‘No, seriously, that’s what he called it, an outrage. He said he had contacts. He said he’d be screwing you for trespass, or harassment, I forget exactly what. In any case that wasn’t really it. Shit, I don’t know. You do your best for a guy – try and please him, give him what he wants – but it’s just never enough, you know what I mean?’
‘Not really. What does he want?’
She gave the question some thought, then reached for another tissue.
‘Me, all of me, all the time. He wants to lock me away.’ She dabbed at her eye, then balled the tissue tightly in her fist. ‘Take this place. He wants to pick up the rent, buy the lease, wrap it up in fancy paper, give it to me as a present with his name all over it.’
‘And you?’
‘I don’t want any of that, don’t need it. He buys three hours of my time twice a week and pays what I charge him. Beyond that, he hasn’t got the right to a single second of my life. He knows that. He’s a grownup man. I’m selling a service. It’s like I was a physiotherapist or a piano tuner or something. It’s just a transaction. It’s just business. And Christ, he seems to know enough about that.’
Winter listened to her, then ducked his head. There was a flaw in her argument, a bloody great hole, and he knew at once what it was.
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