Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘I got as far as the crem,’ she said, ‘but I just couldn’t face it.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘You think that’s cowardly?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘No, be honest. Just tell me. Was I right not to come?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, my love. I’m assuming he mattered to you or you wouldn’t have made the effort.’

  ‘Of course he mattered to me. Shit. How can you say that?’

  Suttle shrugged. Spread his hands wide. No idea. Gill studied him a moment longer, then reached for the bottle beside the modest pile of recipe books. Suttle had been right. Stolly.

  He watched her pour herself a generous slurp, wondering where this conversation was heading. She left the top off the bottle and didn’t bother with more Coke.

  ‘I drove back down to Lee, if you must know. We used to walk there. By the sea. A lot. It felt right. Righter than the crem.’

  Lee-on-the-Solent was a beachside township with views across the water to the Isle of Wight. Apartments on the seafront were much favoured by wealthy retired couples who spent their days watching the big ships outward bound from Southampton. The sunsets were said to be fantastic, but Faraday had always hated the place.

  ‘You live that way?’

  ‘Yeah. I have done for years. Joe used to stay over. We could have made it work. I know we could.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was frowning now. ‘You know something? You’re just like him. You don’t trust people. You don’t believe them. I can hear it in your voice. It must be something to do with the Job.’

  ‘Joe was out of the Job.’

  ‘I know. I know. And he hated it. Absolutely hated it. Didn’t have the first clue what to do with himself …’ She sniffed, gazing at the glass. ‘My poor lamb.’

  ‘You miss him.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Of course I miss him. We were so good together, so fucking good. I knew it from the moment I met him. From that very first time. It was here. That party for Gracie. I expect you remember.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But he’s shy, isn’t he? Like a child? Maybe I should be gentler. Maybe I frighten him. Next time, eh?’

  She raised her glass in a toast, swaying gently on the stool, and Suttle began to wonder how many she’d had. Her use of the present tense was baffling. Suttle had always believed that journalists made most of their stuff up, but this was seriously deranged.

  She wanted to get more off her chest. How they’d been hatching plans to go away together. How she’d been badgering him to sell the Bargemaster’s House and move across to Lee. The sleepless nights she’d passed since the news broke about his death. So many memories, she said. And the promise of a life together once they’d had a proper chance to sort everything out.

  After a while Suttle made his excuses and went upstairs. Lizzie was in the room she called the nursery, reading Grace a story. Suttle stooped low, giving them both a kiss, and volunteered to take over.

  ‘Is she still down there?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Pissed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll phone for a taxi. Put you out of your misery.’

  Lizzie clattered downstairs and Suttle settled himself beside the bed. He was a couple of pages from the end of the story when he heard the parp-parp of the waiting cab in the street, followed by an emotional farewell on the doorstep.

  Back downstairs, minutes later, he found Ulyana giving J-J a hand at the stove. Of Lizzie there was no sign.

  Ulyana had a question from J-J. How long had his dad been seeing the woman with the red lipstick?

  Suttle held up five fingers.

  ‘Weeks?’ Ulyana translated J-J’s next question.

  ‘Days. Your dad couldn’t stand her. Big mistake.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Absolutely certain?’

  ‘Believe me.’

  J-J nodded, gave the frying pan a poke, then signed something to Ulyana.

  Suttle wanted to know what he was saying.

  ‘You want it for real? Word for word?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘He said thank fuck for that.’ She shot J-J a glance. ‘I think he was getting worried.’

  Chapter nine

  PORTSMOUTH: MONDAY, 21 SEPTEMBER 2009

  A month later, while he was still shaving, Winter took a call. It was Carol Legge, a spirited social worker who worked on the city’s Child Protection Team. Over the years Winter had leaned on her for a number of favours. and she’d always obliged him with a stern sense of motherly indulgence. More lately he’d asked for a very big favour indeed, and – after a couple of days’ thought – she said she’d do her best. After a week she had come up with a name and an address. Winter got the form from the Post Office and used the photo booth in the corner to acquire four head shots. The girl behind the counter had warned him not to smile for the camera because the agency didn’t accept smiles any more. Winter held her gaze for a moment then told her it wouldn’t be a problem. Smiling was the last thing he felt like doing.

  Now Winter asked Carol how she was getting on.

  ‘It’s ready, pet,’ she said. ‘And he’d like the money in notes.’

  Karl Sparrow lived in a carefully converted council house on a neat estate at the top of the island. Winter had never met him, but Carol Legge had explained everything he needed to know. Karl’s nickname, she’d said, was Birdy. Half a lifetime ago he’d taken a cheapo summer break at a holiday camp in north Devon. The second night, out of their heads on cider and various other substances, he and his mates had decided on a midnight swim. Birdy dived into the wrong end of the pool, hit the bottom and surfaced with a strange numbness below his neck. His mates managed to get him out, and Birdy was still putting the numbness down to Strongbow when the paramedics arrived. Only a day and a half later, in the neurological unit at the Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital, did a consultant confirm that he’d broken his neck. Barring miracles, Birdy would be paralysed for the rest of his life.

  Winter rang the doorbell, wondering how you’d cope with an injury like that. After a while he heard footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a youngish black woman in a white smock. The nose stud was a fetching shade of lime green and she was peeling off a pair of surgical gloves.

  ‘You the guy Carol sent round?’ Pompey accent.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished, OK? Kitchen’s at the back. Help yourself.’

  Winter went through to the kitchen and made himself a mug of tea. A glass door offered access to a tiny paved area at the rear of the property. At this time of day it was in shadow but later, Winter thought, it would turn into a bit of a sun trap. He was eyeing the row of tomato plants beside the fence when the girl returned.

  ‘He’s ready now.’ She nodded back towards the hall. ‘First on the left.’

  Winter could smell the disinfectant on her clothes. He stepped out of the kitchen and followed her directions. Karl Sparrow was lying in bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows. He was a big man, Winter’s age, with a shaved head and tattoos on both arms. The room, tiled, was bare except for a big motorised wheelchair, a mobile hoist parked tidily at the entrance to the adjacent bathroom and an ancient TV perched on a chest of drawers at the foot of the bed. The disinfectant smell was stronger, laced with something more earthy.

  Sparrow’s hand lay on the whiteness of the sheet.

  Winter gave it a pat. ‘All right, Karl?’

  Sparrow studied him a moment. ‘No,’ he said, ‘since you’re asking.’

  ‘What’s up then?’

  ‘Pressure sore.’ He nodded at the spotless duvet. ‘Takes months to clear up. Mona’s a fucking saint. In her shoes I’d put me down.’

  Winter gazed at him, wondering how far to take the conversation. Mercifully he had very little experience of conditions like this. All he really knew about Birdy was Carol Legg
e’s undying admiration for what she called his pluck. As the medics had warned all those years ago, the guy was paralysed from the neck down, no feeling, no control, nothing. He survived, she said, on a rota of call-in nurses who changed his nappies, sorted out his catheter and urine bottle, and fed him a diet of chicken soup, wholegrain bread and salad from the garden, plus liberal helpings of local gossip. This, it seemed, was all Birdy needed. The rest of his life happened in his head.

  ‘You got the money?’

  ‘Yeah. You want to count it?’

  ‘Very funny. Do it on the bed, yeah?’

  Winter had the notes in a Jiffy bag in his jacket pocket. He made a space for himself on the duvet and began to lay them out. Carol Legge had told him £3,000 in twenties, and Winter was surprised how long it took to count.

  ‘OK?’ he said at last.

  ‘That far pile. Count it again.’

  Winter did so. Five hundred quid. On the button.

  ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘Top drawer. Under the telly.’

  ‘It’ll be safe in there?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve got decent neighbours. Bloke next door’ll do anything for me. Sorts me out money-wise. Keeps an eye on things.’

  ‘And he knows about this?’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘So how do you explain three grand?’

  ‘Fuck knows. Rich relative? Insurance settlement? Either way he won’t care, won’t say a word. All he has to do is give matey a ring and tell him it’s on.’

  ‘What’s on?’

  ‘The new plasma.’ He nodded at the far wall. ‘Sky Sports? Twenty-four-hour news? A million channels? Bring it on, eh?’

  It dawned on Winter that he might just have opened an important door in Birdy’s life. From now on, whenever he fancied it, he could watch the outside world tearing itself to pieces. This knowledge was oddly comforting. He gathered up the notes and stuffed them back in the Jiffy bag. Carol Legge, as ever, had been punctilious about the small print of this deal, but Winter had to be sure.

  ‘No previous, am I right?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He couldn’t take his eyes off the Jiffy bag. ‘Luck of the fucking devil.’

  ‘And you’ve never been abroad?’

  ‘Never. Always fancied it. Never got round to it.’

  ‘And from here on in?’

  ‘No fucking chance. An hour in the back garden is a major production, believe me.’

  ‘OK.’ Winter circled the bed. ‘Top drawer?’

  ‘Yeah. The brown envelope’s for you, mate. Check out some of those DVDs while you’re at it. Magic, eh?’

  Winter opened the drawer. The plain brown envelope was addressed to Karl Sparrow, and Winter could feel the outline of the passport inside.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Thanks. I’m grateful.’

  ‘I meant the DVDs.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Winter quickly sorted through the DVDs. There were dozens of them, all classics, mostly black and white. Casablanca. The African Queen. The Cruel Sea. He’d seen Gone with the Wind three times himself. Clark Gable had always done it for his late wife.

  ‘Brilliant, eh?’ Birdy was watching him. ‘Matey next door’s gonna set the whole lot up for me – plasma, recorder, player, the lot. I tells Mona it’s gonna be like travelling without all that airport hassle. She thinks I’m bonkers, that girl.’

  Birdy cackled with laughter, then began to cough. Within seconds Mona was at the door. Birdy beckoned her into the room with a tiny backwards jerk of his head and whispered something Winter didn’t catch. She nodded and fetched the hoist before glancing across at Winter.

  ‘You want to help me here.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  The nurse folded down the duvet, releasing a gust of foul air. Birdy’s bum was swaddled in a big disposable nappy, crusting brown at the edges, his pale skinny legs poking down towards the bottom of the bed. A reinforced plastic sheet lay beneath the nappy. The nurse disconnected Birdy’s catheter, gathered up the ends of the plastic sheet, which folded around the bulk of his torso, and linked them to the lifting strap that dangled from the hoist. The hoist was operated by a remote control. The strap tightened and Birdy began to rise from the bed.

  ‘Wheelchair?’

  Winter did her bidding. He jockeyed the chair into position beside the bed and then stepped back. Birdy was still in midair, revolving slowly beneath the hoist, his arms and legs slack, his chin on his chest, his eyes closed. Inch by inch, the nurse released the tension on the strap, lowering the flaccid bundle of flesh and blood onto the wheelchair. He must have been through this a million times, Winter thought. Poor bastard.

  ‘Feet?’

  Winter knelt on the cold linoleum, stationing each of Birdy’s feet on the wheelchair’s metal supports. His flesh was icy, the nails yellow and brittle. Then Winter stood aside as the nurse wheeled Birdy into the bathroom. When Winter enquired whether she needed any other help she shook her head.

  ‘We’re fine.’ She said.

  Grateful for the chance to leave, Winter gave Birdy a parting nod and left. Out in the street, heading back to his car, he slipped a thumb under the gummed flap of the envelope and took a look at the passport. The photo didn’t really do justice to the sternness of the expression he’d tried to muster in the Post Office booth, but the rest seemed completely authentic. Beside the Lexus he paused, glancing back towards the house, knowing that the image of Birdy dangling from his hoist would be with him for a very long time. The guy was completely kippered, totally parcelled up, utterly at the mercy of whatever might happen around life’s next corner. That’s me, Winter thought, as he slipped the passport into his jacket pocket.

  That same morning, an hour or so later, Suttle received an abrupt summons to Gail Parsons’ office. At first he assumed she wanted a debrief on the morning’s top story. Yet another young mother had been stranger-raped after a break-in, this time in front of her two-year-old son. This latest incident was the fourth in a series of similar city-wide attacks and there was every reason to assume that they were linked. Suttle had been building the intel file for several weeks now, uncomfortably aware that his own wife was the perfect target for the mystery rapist, and anticipated a detailed grilling from Parsons. Wrong.

  She waved him into a seat in front of her desk and made sure the door was shut.

  ‘This is about Mackenzie,’ she said. ‘And Winter.’

  Suttle blinked. He hadn’t thought about Winter for weeks, not – to be honest – since Faraday’s funeral.

  ‘So what’s happened, boss?’

  ‘This …’ She had a file open on the desk. She passed across a two-page report. Suttle scanned it quickly. Yesterday’s date. And the signature of a uniformed Inspector who rarely let the manic drumbeat of events get in his face. On this occasion, though, it had evidently been very different.

  Suttle looked harder. ‘Safer Neighbourhoods Initiative’ rang a bell.

  ‘This is the community policing thingo?’

  ‘Hearts and minds, Jimmy. It might not be to your taste, nor mine, but that’s not the point. At ACPO level, believe it or not, these things matter.’ She nodded at the report. ‘As you can probably gather.’

  Suttle hadn’t seen the pencilled comments at the foot of the last page. The Chief’s handwriting was unmistakable: flamboyant, beautifully formed, 90 per cent indecipherable. Suttle looked at the front page again, confirming that the Chief and his secretariat were on the circulation list, and then returned to the hieroglyphic at the end.

  ‘So what does he say?’

  ‘He says this is unacceptable. He says it has to stop. What he means is that this man is not to get anywhere near the democratic process.’

  ‘Mackenzie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So who stops him?’

  ‘Good question. I was rather thinking that Winter had an idea or two.’

  Suttle read the report again, properly this time. The Safer Nei
ghbourhoods Initiative, or SNI in the parlance, had organised a series of public meetings. The most recent had taken place a couple of evenings ago at a comprehensive school in the north of the city. For once, to the Inspector’s delight, the SNI had managed a decent turnout. He hadn’t done a headcount but he estimated more than two hundred punters in the school assembly hall. Audiences like this – concerned, civic-minded, determined to add their voices to the swirl of public debate – deserved to have their worst fears about policing and public order put to rest. With that in mind, the Inspector had assembled an impressive PowerPoint presentation, using a blizzard of stats to prove that North End, Copnor and all the other bits of Pompey at the top end of the island were as safe – if not safer – than anywhere else in the kingdom.

  Bazza Mackenzie, though, had other ideas. He’d arrived early, in company with a couple of other guys, and commandeered prime seats in the front row. Thanks to the News, plus his own efforts, there was a growing buzz across the city that Mackenzie might be heading up some kind of challenge in the coming general election, but it hadn’t dawned on the Inspector that his carefully organised meeting was about to be hijacked.

  Suttle read through to the end of the report. This was the work of a very angry man, but it was hard not to smile at some of the choicer quotes.

  ‘Mackenzie actually said all this stuff?’

  ‘As I understand it, yes.’

  ‘Have you talked to anyone else at the meeting?’

  ‘Of course not. The man’s a police officer. He’s got ears. He’s got a brain in his head. We don’t need corroboration.’ She nodded at the report. ‘The moment the likes of Mackenzie stand up and start telling us how to do our job, we’ve got a problem.’

  Suttle could only agree. Halfway through the PowerPoint, seconds after the Inspector had been underlining how much police time went into hi-vis patrols, and how the community could therefore sleep easy at night, Mackenzie had got to his feet and told him he was wrong. The reality, according to Bazza, was exactly the opposite. Pissed kids. Rowdy students. Dickheads pulling stunts on cross-country bikes. Mad drivers burning rubber on some of the wider side roads. Drunks pissing in next door’s hedge. Incident after incident, each carefully logged by Pompey’s tyro politician.