He paused beside the big picture window, staring out across the harbour. By late September, at this time of night, the light was already dying in the west. The big council flats on the Gosport waterfront were etched black against the paleness of the sky, the first pricks of light visible on the upper floors. Next week it would be October. Soon the clocks would go back. After which his fears about the darkness would be all too real.
He checked his mobile again, wondering whether Suttle had left any more messages. All afternoon he’d fought the urge to get in touch, to ask him how the land lay, to share a joke or two, to hear a voice he trusted, but just now he knew it was important to keep him at arm’s length until his own strategy – how he intended to handle the coming months – was clearer. From his office at the Royal Trafalgar, he’d done his best to get hold of Nikki Kokh, but for some reason the Russian wasn’t returning his calls. Instead, in the end, he’d phoned the guy who served as Kokh’s lieutenant.
Arkady was a big, broad, potato-faced Muscovite with huge hands and a ready sense of humour. Twenty years older than Kokh, he’d once been a cop. Kokh had plucked him out of near-retirement, flown him to Montenegro and installed him as his eyes and ears at the Hotel Georgi, the first of many flags Kokh had planted on the Adriatic coast. From time to time the pair of them turned up at English Premiership games, and Winter still remembered the moment when Bazza had done the introductions.
They’d all met at a city restaurant for lunch before going to Fratton Park to watch a home fixture. In situations like these Bazza was never slow to point out that Winter was a trophy signing from Pompey CID, but Arkady needed no clues. He’d known at once that Winter was a fellow cop. That night, while Bazza wined and dined Kokh at the hotel, he and Arkady had gone on the piss, strolling from pub to pub, trading war stories, chuckling at the madness of trying to impose any kind of order on the reliable chaos of city life. What made the evening especially sweet was the realisation that they’d both traded a career as cops for something altogether more interesting, and by the time they made it back to the hotel they’d become brothers in arms.
Afterwards Winter had kept the relationship going – the odd phone call, a postcard when work sent him abroad, an occasional present at Christmas – and talking to Arkady late this afternoon he knew at once that the rapport was still there. Kokh, it seemed, was holed up in his motor yacht at a place called Kotor. Getting a meet with him would be no problem. Winter was to fly to Dubrovnik, take a cab across the border to Budva, and present himself at the Hotel Georgi. Arkady would take care of everything else.
Winter checked his watch, wondering about the time difference. The Balkans, he assumed, would be an hour or two ahead. He’d booked a BA flight that put him on the ground in Dubrovnik early tomorrow afternoon. Looking at the map, he estimated a two-hour taxi ride over the border to Budva. Arkady was setting Kokh up for an evening on the yacht at Kotor. By Wednesday morning, fingers crossed, Winter would be free to pursue the real business he had in mind.
The country code for Croatia was 00385. Checking the slip of paper he kept in his wallet, he dialled a number. The number rang and rang, and he was beginning to think that she was at work, or in the shower, or otherwise engaged, when she finally answered.
‘You’re really coming?’ Five years had done nothing to change her voice.
‘Yeah.’
‘When?’
‘Wednesday. Where the fuck’s …’ he peered at the scribbled name beneath her number ‘… Porec?’
‘A long way from Montenegro.’ She was laughing now. ‘I hope you like coaches.’
Suttle was home early for once. Lizzie was in the kitchen, singing along to Radiohead while the baby watched her stuffing the week’s laundry into the washing machine. Suttle gave his wife a kiss, which got a big grin from Grace. Lizzie had acquired a lightweight portable rocker from a friend of Gill’s. It sat neatly on the kitchen worktop, giving Grace a perfect view of pretty much everything. A system of straps kept her safe from falling out, and Suttle loved the way she kicked her legs and waved her chubby arms to get the thing moving.
‘My girl,’ he whispered, putting his face to hers. Nothing in his life had prepared him for the softness and sweet scent of his daughter’s infant flesh. If there was anything closer to perfection, he’d yet to find it.
Lizzie wanted to tell him about Andy.
‘Who?’
‘Andy. Andy Makins. You remember Megan? My best mate?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Yeah. Well it seems Andy did a runner in the end, just the way I knew he would. The guy’s a total bastard. Megan’s in bits.’
‘And …?’
‘It turns out he’s hooked up with Mackenzie.’
‘Mackenzie?’ Lizzie at last had Suttle’s full attention. ‘So how does that work?’
Lizzie explained about the feature Gill had done on Pompey First. To no one’s surprise, Mackenzie had taken a fancy to this forty-something vision in thigh-length boots, and the encounter had survived beyond the interview.
‘So what happened?’
‘Gill bigged up Andy. Told Mackenzie he was a genius, just what he needed if Pompey First was ever going to make it.’
‘And Mackenzie?’
‘He bought it. Big time. Hauled Andy in for an interview and gave him a job.’
‘As what?’
‘God knows. Andy lives and breathes the Internet. He knows exactly what’s possible. I’m assuming Mackenzie needs that kind of talent.’
‘And Gill?’
‘She’s stoked.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Andy’s copped himself a hotel bedroom. Sea views. Fridge. Hot and cold everything. She couldn’t be happier.’
‘Why’s that? You’re telling me Gill’s into Mackenzie?’
‘You’re joking. The man’s an animal. It’s Andy, my love.’ She stepped across and gave him a kiss. ‘I thought you were the detective in the family?’
It was dark by the time Winter got to Misty Gallagher’s place. He killed the headlights the moment he turned in through the gate and let the big Lexus ghost to a halt. Misty was in the kitchen, her back to the window. She had the phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear and was painting her nails.
Winter lay back against the warm leather, wondering who she was talking to. After tomorrow’s trip, if things went the way he anticipated, there’d be no way out. He’d have made a decision that would probably shape the rest of his life. He’d be back by the end of the week, committed to a double life that he’d have to sustain for the best part of six months. Was he up to that kind of deception? Could he withstand that kind of pressure? And if so, who would be the losers? Mackenzie? Definitely. His immediate family? Without doubt. But Misty? Who loved him? Who wanted him? Who still made life extremely sweet for him? Where would she find herself in six months’ time? If things panned out OK?
He shook his head, knowing that there was no room for guilt or regret in the script he was writing for himself. What he needed just now was the raw gut conviction to keep his nerve. In essence, he told himself, the thing was simple. His years with Bazza had taken him to a very bad place. What little was left of his conscience was beginning to trouble him, but infinitely worse was the prospect of arrest and deportation. A European Arrest Warrant, all too likely, would trigger an abrupt rewriting of his life plan. Did he really want to spend umpteen years banged up with a bunch of foreign scrotes in some Spanish jail? Was that any way to end his days?
Misty’s phone conversation had come to an end. Winter leaned across for the holdall he’d packed at the flat. Misty was keen for him to make the move in one go, to rent a van and haul his entire life across to Hayling Island, but Winter knew he couldn’t cope with that. Until he found a buyer, it had to be one token item at a time, a down payment – as he argued it – on a permanent relationship.
With this Misty was far from happy. She knew he cherished his independence. She was aware of how much he adored his littl
e perch on the edge of Pompey harbour, but she had a view as well, and water at the bottom of her garden, and ample room for Winter to hide himself away and play the single man if that was what he really wanted. This argument had been going on for weeks and was still far from settled, but only last night Winter had pointed out that it was much easier to sell a flat that still felt lived in, and this, for the time being, seemed to have done the trick.
Fumbling with his key, Winter let himself in. Still drying her nails, Misty circled him with her arms and gave him a kiss. Winter could taste Bacardi. She fetched him a Stella from the fridge and perched herself on the bar stool in the big kitchen, watching him pour it. Winter could smell one of the curries Misty had mastered from a recipe book he’d given her at Christmas. There was more Stella in the fridge and afterwards they’d curl up next door with a DVD or two. By half ten they’d both be pleasantly pissed, and if Winter could muster the energy there might be some action before Misty doused the bedroom lights and folded herself around him. Not a bad life. Not considering.
Winter raised his glass in the usual toast.
‘Us … yeah?’
Misty didn’t move. Her glass was empty.
‘I had Trude on earlier,’ she said. ‘What was Jimmy Suttle doing in your flat?’
Chapter twelve
GATWICK AIRPORT: TUESDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER 2009
Winter was at Gatwick Airport in good time for the morning BA flight to Dubrovnik. He’d booked the ticket in the name of Karl Sparrow, and there were no problems when he presented his new passport on the way through the departure channel.
An hour’s wait for the flight to be called gave him the opportunity to give Misty a ring. He’d left her before she’d really woken up, telling her he’d be back by the end of the week, and she’d grunted something that might have been affectionate before turning over and going back to sleep. He’d spent most of last night trying to explain why he’d accepted the role of godfather to young Jimmy’s baby but he was still unsure whether she believed D/S Suttle had been paying a purely social visit to Blake House. In Misty’s world the Filth were always the Filth – no exceptions, no room for negotiation – and what alarmed her most was the fact that she’d had to learn about this cosy little arrangement from her daughter.
‘So why didn’t you tell me, pet?’
‘Because you’d never understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘That you can stay mates with someone like that.’
‘Filth, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re right. I don’t. It makes me very nervous, pet. And I’m someone who loves you.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Others might not be so trusting. Like Baz for starters. He gets funny about Filth, especially some knobber who once shagged Trude. You think that’s unreasonable?’
‘Not at all. But it’s my life, Mist, not his. I taught that kid everything he knows.’
‘Which makes him a great detective?’
‘The best.’
‘Then put yourself in Baz’s place. What’s he gonna think? Someone that sharp sniffing around? Baz didn’t get rich by accident, pet. He’s got a brain, believe it or not. Plus he knows a set-up when he sees it.’
‘You think this is a set-up?’
‘Either that, pet, or you’re losing it.’
‘Then maybe I’m losing it.’
‘No, you’re not. If that was the case, I’d be the first to tell you.’
At this point, with the curry in danger of overcooking, they’d called a truce. Only later, in bed, had Mist raised Suttle again. She’d tried to rouse Winter and failed completely. Up on one elbow, her face silhouetted against the bedside light, she’d hung over him.
‘Maybe you should move in properly,’ she’d murmured, ‘then Baz need never know.’
‘About what?’
‘Jimmy.’ She’d smiled. ‘Deal?’
Now he waited for her to pick up. As far as he knew, she’d been planning a raid on the autumn sales in Southampton. He was right. On his third attempt to get through, she was on the motorway, heading west.
‘You …’ she said.
‘Me,’ he agreed.
She laughed, then said she wanted to apologise for giving him a hard time last night. On reflection she’d decided he was right.
‘Right? I’m not with you, Mist.’
‘I think you are losing it, pet. But I still love you.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve booked a van for Saturday. Trude says she’ll be around to help. Isn’t that sweet of her?’
‘A van for what, Mist?’
‘All your clobber. It’s a weekend deal. We can do several runs. That OK with you, pet?’
The line went dead, leaving Winter staring into the middle distance. According to the nearest bank of screens, the Dubrovnik flight was delayed for an hour. Great, he thought, pocketing the mobile.
Headwinds over southern Europe put another thirty minutes on the journey, and by the time Winter stepped onto the tarmac at Dubrovnik Airport it was nearly three o’clock. He scored a cursory nod from immigration, carried his single bag through customs and queued for several minutes beside the cab rank outside arrivals before agreeing a fare to Budva.
Winter climbed into the back of the Mercedes and put a precautionary call through to Arkady.
‘I’m going to be late,’ he said. ‘The flight was delayed.’
Arkady told him to head for a seafront hotel called the Neptun where a room had been reserved. The Georgi, it seemed, was full.
‘What name have you used?’
‘Winter.’
‘I’m travelling as Karl Sparrow. You want to tell them that?’
‘No problem.’ Arkady didn’t seem the least surprised. ‘Take care, my friend.’
The cab driver, mercifully, spoke no English, so Winter settled down to enjoy the trip. The border was half an hour down the road. Soon after they crossed into Montenegro, beyond a rash of new hotels, the road wound round a huge fjord that reached deep into the mountains. The scenery was spectacular, the water a flawless shade of green, fluffy white clouds crowning the surrounding peaks. At the head of the fjord Winter caught signs to Kotor, and minutes later the Mercedes slowed as the traffic began to thicken.
The town of Kotor sprawled along the waterfront. At the heart of it was an ancient walled settlement that obviously pulled thousands of tourists. A huge white cruise ship lay docked alongside the marina, and Winter wound down the window for a better view as the Mercedes crawled past. Beyond the cruise ship lay a line of fuck-off gin palace motor-cruisers, neatly parked stern first to the waterfront promenade, and Winter twisted round in the seat, wondering which of these trophy toys belonged to Kokh.
Half an hour later, after a fast run down a valley back towards the coast, the road climbed again, and around the shoulder of the next mountain Winter found himself looking down at Budva. In the literature he’d consulted on the plane this was the go-go engine at the heart of Montenegro’s economic revival, and looking down at the sprawl of hotels he could well believe it. The town filled the bowl of a broad valley, suburbs spilling up the foothills of the mountains behind, and wherever you looked the view was spiked by cranes. A grey-looking beach marked the long curve of the bay, and the promontory on the far side had morphed into a gigantic construction site.
According to Bazza, this stretch of coast had become a magnet for Russian money, most of it dodgy, and already Winter had lost count of the bulky new-looking 4 × 4s that permanently hogged the outside lane. Budva chic obviously called for wrap-round shades to go with the darkened windows, and it was rare to spot a driver who didn’t look like he spent most of his life in the gym. Already Winter sensed these were serious people. They took no prisoners at traffic intersections. They liked to ride with sensational-looking women. They didn’t smile much.
The Hotel Neptun was tucked into a compound behind the beach. Winter paid the driver and made his way to recept
ion. The girl took a cursory look at his passport and told him that payment for the room had been taken care of. When he asked whether anyone had left a message she reached under the counter and gave him an envelope. The scribbled note inside was from Arkady. He apologised for not being around in person, but just now his schedule was impossible. A car would be calling for Winter at half past seven, and Nikki was looking forward to meeting him in Kotor. In the meantime he might like to take a look at Budva’s wonderful waterfront. The letter ended with a big fat exclamation mark: Enjoy!
Winter wondered whether Kokh’s lieutenant, who had a well-developed sense of humour, was being ironic. He was. After dumping his bag in the room, Winter left the hotel and made his way towards the sea. The shadows were beginning to lengthen beneath the scrawny palm trees but there was still warmth in the air. Fat women lay sprawled on the beach among pockets of litter and driftwood, enjoying the last of the sunshine, while a lone drinker at an otherwise empty café sat staring out to sea.
Winter paused for a moment, trying to picture the scene at the height of the summer. Even then, swamped with tourists, it wouldn’t have been pretty. Everything seemed abandoned or half finished. A beachside amusement park had succumbed to fly-tippers. Peasant women squatted in the shadows guarding piles of bulky knitware which might – or might not – have been for sale. Even the tribes of feral cats, foraging listlessly for scraps, seemed to have lost the plot.
Strolling on, Winter began to wonder whether this was what happened when you threw a lot of money at a pretty coastline and didn’t bother too much about the consequences. He was closer to the development across the bay now, and from this perspective it was even bigger than it had seemed from the cab. Maybe this was the answer, he thought. Maybe the serious investors ring-fenced the best sites, turned their backs on all the other rubbish and created a little fantasy world of their own. That way you’d be selling exclusivity, privileged access, round-the-clock security, plus a bunch of like-minded punters who wouldn’t get in your face.
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