‘About what?’
‘Us. And Faraday.’
‘I’m not with you, boss.’ Suttle was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘The guy committed suicide.’
‘We’re sure about that?’
‘Positive. I talked to D/I Hayder last night.’
‘No evidence of …’ she paused ‘… negligence?’
‘By who?’
‘Us.’
Suttle was looking at Lizzie. Good journalists listen to everything, and she was one of the best. He bent to the phone again.
‘We gave him support, boss. I understand we offered him a job. What else could we do?’
‘Nothing. You’re right. I’ll tell Mr Willard. Anything else I should know?’
‘Yeah, boss. Winter.’
‘What about him?’
‘We had a long chat last night.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘What time are you seeing Mr Willard?’
It was never Suttle’s intention to invite himself to lunch, but when the return call came fifteen minutes later it seemed that Willard had insisted. He and Parsons had been planning to meet at a gastropub out in the country, but under the circumstances Parsons had cancelled the booking and would be getting something together in the privacy of her own home. She anticipated a lengthy discussion, and the last thing she needed was an audience.
Willard was a big man, physically imposing. He’d won a force-wide reputation as a detective’s detective and commanded respect as well as a degree of fear. Suttle had never seen him out of a suit.
‘Winter?’ he said.
They were sitting around a highly polished table in Parsons’ dining room. There were only single-course settings, and Suttle was wondering why she bothered with a silver candelabrum at midday. At least she hadn’t lit the candles.
Suttle explained about the meet he’d had last night. Winter had tired of life with Bazza Mackenzie. He was definitely looking for a way out, and if the price of the ticket was stitching up his boss then so be it.
‘And you believe him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Mackenzie’s started to frighten him.’
Willard wanted to know how. Suttle explained the political campaign he was trying to mount. The man’s ambition knew no limits. In Winter’s view, Mackenzie had lost touch with reality. He was in denial about the gathering storm that threatened to swamp his various businesses, and in the shape of Leo Kinder he’d found the playmate of his dreams. As ever, the world was his for the taking. Next stop Westminster.
The news that Mackenzie might be facing ruin drew a smile of grim satisfaction from Willard. He’d always believed that one day Mackenzie would be the cause of his own undoing. Maybe that time had come.
‘I’m still not clear about Winter,’ he said. ‘Why so sudden? Why now?’
Suttle had been anticipating exactly this question. He should of course tell Willard about the possibility of a European Arrest Warrant but knew that this would be the end for Winter. In Willard’s book the ex-D/C was public enemy number two. Turning your back on the Job, betraying everything that it represented, was the cardinal sin. Nothing would please him more than to know that Winter might spend the rest of his life in some khazi of a foreign jail.
‘I think it’s been building, sir. I think it’s a long-term thing. Mackenzie’s an animal, and even Winter’s realised nothing’s going to change.’
‘He knew that all along.’
‘Maybe not in the way he knows it now.’
‘So what’s happened?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Would he tell you?’
‘He might.’
Willard nodded. One of the reasons he was a hot favourite for ACPO rank was his talent for seeing through every variety of bullshit. This skill had served him well as a sharp-end detective, and Suttle was uncomfortably aware that the conversation was about to become deeply personal.
Parsons appeared with a basket full of rolls, hot from the oven. Willard reached for one without taking his eyes off Suttle.
‘Winter’s a godfather to your daughter. Am I right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Was that wise? Given the fact that you’re a serving officer?’
‘Probably not, sir.’
‘Probably not? You’re a policeman. Winter’s taking money off a known criminal. He works for the man. He probably does a good job. He probably makes him feel safe. And you treat him as a mate? Some kind of family friend?’
Suttle said nothing. At this rate he’d start next week by looking for a new job.
‘They go back a long way, Geoff. And if Jimmy wasn’t still in touch I dare say we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
It was Parsons. She’d been listening from the adjoining kitchen. Now she stepped back into the room with a bowl of salad and a bottle of wine. She gave the wine to Willard and fetched some glasses from the sideboard.
Suttle wondered whether to volunteer his services with the corkscrew. He liked her use of Christian names and was grateful for Parsons’ intervention. He’d known for months that hoisting Winter on board for Grace’s christening hadn’t been a great career move, but Lizzie had been keen, and in the end Suttle hoped no one would notice. Wrong.
‘Do you feel compromised?’ Willard had put the bottle to one side.
‘No, sir.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because I know where the line is.’
‘What line?’
‘Between the job and everything else in my life.’
‘And you think that’s the same for Winter?’
‘Yes, sir. I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because when the chips are down, like now, he treats me as a friend. And that, sir, might be an opportunity for us.’
Willard eyeballed Suttle a moment longer then granted him a tiny nod of approval. Nice answer. Clever. Neat. Almost plausible.
‘Winter’s a rat,’ Willard said softly. ‘We shouldn’t be dealing with rats.’
‘But Mackenzie’s the same, sir. Only nastier.’
‘And you think that justifies cosying up to Winter?’
‘That’s your word, sir. All we’ve done is have a conversation.’
‘And you trust him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But you think we should have him on board?’
‘I think we should be putting Mackenzie away.’
‘And you think Winter can do that?’
‘I think he can make it possible, yes.’
Parsons was ferrying dishes in from the kitchen. With the pasta went a big dish of chilli con carne. While Suttle explained Winter’s plan to bait the campaign-funding trap with the drug debt owed by Martin Skelley, Willard wrestled the cork from the bottle.
‘That means we’ll be talking months,’ he said. ‘Next spring, probably.’
‘That’s right, sir. But that’s generally the way with u/c.’
Willard nodded. An effective undercover operation often took upwards of a year to prepare. In this case Winter would, if anything, be shortening the time frame, chiefly because he was already at the heart of Mackenzie’s life. No need to insert someone new, give them a legend, let them groom the major parties, lulling them into a false sense of security before the trap was finally sprung. In Suttle’s view Winter’s offer was a major windfall, a great fat plum that had just dropped into their laps.
Parsons agreed. ‘Jimmy’s right, Geoff. There’s no one else I can think of that Winter would trust. Maybe we owe him a vote of thanks.’
Willard ignored the invitation. He helped himself to a plate of food then looked up at Suttle.
‘The man’s a nightmare.’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Winter. Assuming we do something, assuming we think it might play to our advantage, we’ll need to manage the bastard, tie him hand and foot, make him understand he’s not a free agent any more. These things are tricky. We could get burne
d. Badly.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘So who’d do it? Who’d take the responsibility? Who’d rein him in?’
There was a long silence, broken, in the end, by Parsons. She smiled across the table, loops of pasta hanging from her fork.
‘That would have to be you, Jimmy, wouldn’t it?’
Winter spent the day at Misty’s place out at Hayling Island. He brought her two bottles of Chablis, a bunch of pink roses and news he assumed would put a big smile on her face.
‘Bazza’s not interested in selling up, Mist. Fuck knows why, but he seems to think you need this lot.’
They were sitting beside the pool. The sun was hot after a couple of early showers, and Misty was lying topless on her B&Q recliner. A couple of savage Bacardi and Cokes had settled her down after a late lunch, and droplets of sweat were beading in the coat of factor 20 that masked her face.
She reached out for his hand. Earlier she’d suggested he join her in the pool, but there was no way Winter could squeeze into Bazza’s cast-off Hawaiian surf shorts. Now, nursing a Stella, he sat beside the patio table in the shadow of a big striped umbrella. He’d shed his jacket and from time to time he mopped his face with a corner of Misty’s towel.
‘I’ve been thinking …’ she said.
‘About what?’
‘Us.’ She gave his hand a little squeeze, turning her head sideways to bring him into view. ‘What if you came to live with me?’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, pet.’
‘You mean …’ Winter frowned ‘… full time?’
‘Yes. Does that sound so terrible? Someone to look after you? All those little needs of yours?’
She struggled onto one elbow and slipped her sunglasses to the end of her nose. For a woman in her late forties, she still had a wonderful body. Winter had given up pretending not to look at her breasts.
‘I’d bore you shitless,’ he said. ‘Give it a month and you’d chuck me out.’
‘Never. You’re good for me. You make me laugh.’
‘Yeah? And what else?’
Winter had known Misty Gallagher far too long to take anything at face value. However disarming the smile, she always had another agenda, and one of the reasons they’d been good together was the fact that she knew she could never bullshit him.
Misty admitted times were getting tough.
‘How?’
‘Money-wise.’ She waved a manicured hand towards the house. ‘Baz has always been good about paying the bills but lately he’s started making excuses. It’s getting tricky, pet. I’m not sure what a girl’s supposed to do.’
‘You think he wants you out? You think I’m wrong about that?’
‘No. I think you’re right. I think he’s skint. If he could help me out I’m sure he would. To be honest, it’s a bit of an embarrassment.’
She explained about a recent bathroom refurb. She’d got a guy in to rip out the old bathroom suite and install a power shower and a new Jacuzzi. He’d done a brilliant job and she was really pleased, but she was looking at a bill for nearly 5K and hadn’t got a clue how to pay it.
‘Baz?’
‘He says he can’t. He knows the bloke well. Suggests I bung him a couple of freebies.’
‘And?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Try me.’
‘The guy’s an animal. We did it once. Never again.’
‘Charge him five grand.’
‘That’s exactly what I did.’
‘And?’
‘He just laughed.’ She reached for her drink and pulled a face. ‘He wants it regularly, preferably Wednesday evenings. That’s the night his wife goes to Pilates. The problem with builders is they never know when to stop. Believe me, pet, there wouldn’t be anything left by Thursday.’
Winter smiled. He didn’t know whether to believe this little tale, but something told him it was probably true. Misty’s appetite for sex had been the real come-on for Bazza. In the world of Pompey gossip nothing spoke louder than having Misty Gallagher as your regular shag.
‘So I’d be the muscle, right? Keeping your creditors in line?’
‘Absolutely. And you’d have squatter’s rights.’
‘But I’ve got those already, Mist.’
‘Yeah, but more often.’
‘You’d wear me out.’
‘That’s what I told the builder, but he never listened. An hour and a half? Do you think that’s reasonable? No chatty little breaks? Nothing to drink? Not a word between us? It was weird, pet. God knows what he’s like at home.’
‘He’s probably a puppy. Or maybe his missus has gone off it.’
‘That’s what I said. That was the other bit. He went totally mental. Told me I couldn’t hold a candle to the way she did it. Just wasn’t in the same league.’
‘So why bother with you?’
‘Thanks, pet.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I know.’ She shot him a smile. ‘Next time I bollock you for not trying, just say “Builder.” Five minutes? Tops? Then off to sleep? Bring it on, pet. Move in whenever you like.’
Winter laughed, knowing she was probably serious. Since Bazza had abandoned territorial rights Mist had definitely wanted something closer and more permanent, but Winter found this prospect a bit of a let-down after the scary excitement of nailing Bazza’s mistress when his boss was busy elsewhere. He could rely on Misty for a lot of things, including the best sex he’d ever had, but he wasn’t at all sure about cosy nights around the flame-effect gas fire.
‘So why me? You could have any bloke you fancied.’
‘Of course I could, but it’s not the same, is it? You can’t build a whole fucking life around some bloke who happens to take your eye.’
‘Then stay single.’
‘You’re not supposed to say that, pet. You’re supposed to find life impossible without me.’
‘I do. Often.’
‘Sure. That’s when you want a shag. And that’s when you lift the phone. So what else am I in your life, Paul?’
Winter stiffened. This was getting serious. She very rarely used his Christian name, and when she did it usually spelled trouble.
‘Are we talking the L-word?’ he enquired.
‘Yeah. Lulu. That’s me. A fucking lulu. Off my head. Putting up with all this.’
‘All what?’
‘This.’ Her head jerked back towards the house. ‘Trying to keep it all together, trying to make things half-decent for us, trying to kid myself I’m not getting shagged witless by some half-arsed cheating bastard monkey I happen to owe money to.’
Shocked, Winter realised she was crying. Proud as ever, she’d tried to turn her current situation into some kind of joke, but it hadn’t worked. Life was getting to her, big time. Especially now.
He abandoned his chair and squatted beside the recliner. Misty tried to push him off. She was angry as well as upset. She hated being seen like this. Crying was for a different kind of woman.
‘Fuck off, Paul. You don’t need me. Just go.’
‘Who says?’
‘You don’t have to say. It’s fucking obvious. I thought you were different once, but you’re not, are you? You’re just like the rest of them. You take what you want and come back when the mood suits you. At least Baz said he loved me.’
‘When?’ Winter was astonished.
‘A couple of years ago.’ She dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. ‘He was pissed, if you want the truth, completely out of his head, but at least he said it.’
‘And me?’
‘What about you?’
‘You think I don’t love you?’
‘I don’t know. You never say.’ She spared him a tiny enquiring glance. ‘Well …?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘And is it such a tough fucking thing to say?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘It is.’
‘Why?’
‘Because …’ Winte
r frowned, hunting for the explanation, wanting somehow to make things better for her.
She was looking at him. She’d taken her glasses off. She sniffed a couple of times.
‘Is it me? Am I that evil?’
‘No, Mist, you’re not.’
‘What is it then? Aren’t we right together? Or am I so stupid I’ve missed the fucking obvious?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like this is some kind of game?’
‘No, Mist, it’s not a game.’
‘Then what is it? Just tell me the truth for once. Go on, Paul. Do us both a favour. Be brave.’
Winter didn’t know what to say. His knees were killing him. He shifted his weight, propping his back against the recliner. Across the harbour he could see the tiny dot that was the Bargemaster’s House. He gazed at it for a long moment, thinking of Faraday. He too had messed up in relationship after relationship. Maybe it was a man thing. Or maybe it was something that came with the Job. The latter thought took him back to Jimmy Suttle. The coming months were going to be extremely challenging. One wrong move and he could end up like Westie. The last thing he needed was to fall out with Mist.
Winter closed his eyes. The sun was warm on his face. He let his head fall on Misty’s shoulder, then reached for her hand.
‘Well?’ She was still waiting for an answer.
‘You know it already, Mist.’
‘Know what?’
‘That I can’t live without you.’
Chapter seven
PORTSMOUTH: MONDAY, 24 AUGUST 2009
D/I Hayder wrapped up Operation Castor in less than a week. Analysis of Faraday’s recent correspondence, emails and phone calls yielded a handful of contacts which Hayder regarded as useful. Emails to a couple of birding magazines had cancelled both subscriptions. A letter to his solicitor had asked for a meeting which hadn’t, in the end, taken place. A couple of days later, in a two-minute call to a local jobbing gardener, Faraday had apparently had second thoughts about a minor landscaping project. When Hayder traced the guy and paid him a visit, he said he hadn’t been surprised. He’d helped Faraday out on a number of occasions but lately he seemed to have lost interest. He hadn’t done any weeding for weeks. Neither had his plantings been watered. More telling still, evidence on Faraday’s PC of repeated visits to his secure page on the HSBC website indicated a sudden interest in the state of his bank balance.
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