She’d met Josip, she explained, in a bar on the Venezuelan coast. She’d been travelling with a friend, dropping down from Nicaragua en route to Brazil. He was skippering a charter yacht for a party of rich Americans who were relaxed about extra company.
‘So what happened?’
‘I never got to Brazil. Not by bus, anyway.’
They’d spent that summer afloat. Josip had a favourite cousin he’d virtually grown up with. The cousin was now a bridge officer with a shipping line headquartered in Split, and a decade at sea had made him a great deal of money. A loan had bought Josip an old schooner they’d found in a marina in Martinique. Joe, whose second passion in life was DIY, had fixed it up, and they’d spent the following couple of years island-hopping around the Caribbean.
‘So what’s Joe’s first passion?’
‘Apart from me, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Art stuff. Painting. Sketching. That’s what got him into tattooing. He’s an interesting man, Joe. It’s not obvious at first, but he’s really unusual.’
Tattooing, she said, had paid their way. Every time they dropped anchor, she and Joe would put fliers around. Guys on the yachting circuit paid ninety-five dollars an hour. Adapting his technique to black skin had taken Joe a while to perfect, but in the end it had worked just fine. Instead of money, the locals paid with fruit and fish. Unlike other visiting yachties, they never got robbed.
‘So why did you come back?’
‘Joe’s mum got sick. And so did I.’
‘What happened?’
‘She’s still in hospital. I don’t think it’s going to be long.’
‘I meant you.’
‘Don’t ask.’ Her fingers briefly touched her midriff. ‘But I’m fine now.’
At Winter’s insistence, once she’d packed up for the evening and locked the agency, they went to a nearby sports bar. There was football on the plasma screens, but Inter Milan v. Roma had failed to pull the crowds in. Winter found them a shadowed table at the back.
‘So tell me …’ she said.
Winter explained about his journey to the Dark Side. How his bosses had screwed up on a u/c job to kipper Pompey’s drug lord and how Winter had nearly died as a result. How he’d decided to bin the rest of his CID service and join Bazza Mackenzie for real. How well it had worked for the first couple of years – good money, good company, good everything – and how more recently it had begun to destroy him.
‘That’s a big word, my love.’
‘I mean it.’ He reached for her hand. ‘It’s killing me in ways you wouldn’t believe. I thought I went into this thing with my eyes open. Turns out I was wrong. You do stuff, you let yourself get involved in stuff, and it comes back to haunt you.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
He gave her a look. In the half-light she was the old Maddox, a woman who could rob you of your deepest secrets without you scarcely knowing it. She worked a particular magic, an allure all the more potent for being so understated, and he realised how much he’d missed her. She was, in a word, classy.
‘I got caught up in a contract killing in Spain. It wasn’t down to me, but I was the one closest to the action. That’s not a distinction that’s going to cut much ice with a Spanish jury.’
‘They want to arrest you?’
‘They will. In the end it’s bound to happen. Fuck knows, they may have a warrant already.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Here’s fine. There’s no extradition treaty between Spain and Croatia. Not yet, anyway. Not until this lot join the EU.’
‘So you’re safe?’
‘Yeah. Pretty much.’
‘So how long are you staying?’
‘A day or so, max. We just need to get things ironed out.’
They talked about the apartment in Blake House. Winter said there’d be no problem getting a buyer. The market for property in the UK wasn’t great, but places in Gunwharf were holding up OK and he’d be disappointed if he didn’t get at least 500K.
‘Fifty per cent is 250K. Will that be enough?’
‘That’ll be plenty. We’re buying another boat. Once Joe’s mum’s gone, we’re off again.’
Winter’s heart sank. An hour locked in conversation with this wonderful woman and he’d forgotten all about Josip.
‘Somewhere nice?’ he inquired.
‘Greece. The islands. Then wherever. What about you?’
This, Winter knew, was the question he couldn’t dodge. Since yesterday he’d thought of nothing else. His days with Mackenzie were definitely numbered. Exactly how he dug the tunnel and hoodwinked the guards was yet to be negotiated, but afterwards he needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to rest up, somewhere safe beyond anyone’s knowledge, and anyone’s reach. Except, perhaps, Maddox.
‘I was thinking maybe here.’
‘Porec?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why? How would that work?’
He gazed at her for a long moment. Rule one in a situation like this was to trust nobody. The fewer people you shared stuff with, the closer to your chest you played your cards, the smaller the chance of it all falling apart. Yet there had to be someone in your life you could rely on. Otherwise that life wasn’t worth living.
‘I was thinking you might be able to find me somewhere to get my head down, somewhere to live. You must know places.’
‘Of course I do. I sell them.’ She’d withdrawn her hand. ‘You’re planning on buying?’
‘I dunno. I’m not sure. Maybe some kind of rental first, see how it goes, then get something more permanent if it works out.’
‘You’d need a job?’
‘Probably not.’
‘But you think you could cope with it? Hack it? Life out here? The language? No friends? No contacts?’
‘There’s you.’ Winter offered a weak smile. ‘And Joe.’
‘Sure. But we’ll have gone.’
‘Yeah.’ Winter gazed down at his empty glass. ‘Of course.’
The silence thickened between them. The Roma centre forward poked a lovely pass over the bar. A lone drinker in the corner shook his head and turned away.
‘What about tonight? Have you got somewhere?’
‘No.’
‘I can sort something out. I’ve got the keys to a place down the road. It’s a bit pokey but it’ll do for a night or two.’ She leaned against Winter and then cupped his face between her hands. She’d always read him like a book. ‘You’re hurting, aren’t you?’
‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘You are. I can see it.’
‘Yeah?’ He risked a look at her face. For some reason he felt close to tears. ‘It’s been a shit couple of days, love. I need to have a think about things.’
‘You do, my love. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’
‘When?’ He jumped in too quickly. He was definitely losing it.
‘Maybe lunchtime. Maybe late afternoon. Fridays are always a bit difficult. Give me a ring, eh?’
‘I can’t. They nicked my phone.’
‘I’ve got a spare. It’s back at the office. We’ll pick it up when I get the keys.’
Winter nodded. Something he’d been looking forward to, something he realised he’d taken for granted, was evaporating in front of his eyes. She had a life, this woman, and to no one’s surprise Paul Winter wasn’t part of it.
‘When I do a runner I’ll be in for the full makeover,’ he said. ‘Name. History. Inside-leg measurement. The lot. You think Joe might do me a couple of tatts?’
Maddox was still very close. He could smell the wine on her breath.
‘I’m sure he would.’ She kissed his ear. ‘You know how he describes what he does?’
‘Tell me.’
‘He says he gets a sense of what a person is really like. And then he puts what’s inside outside.’
‘Horrible.’ Winter sat back and closed his eyes. ‘Who’d want to look at that?’
He had breakfast at a café on the waterfront. A plate of scrambled eggs cheered him up a little, and he was amused by a brief conversation with an elderly couple on the next table. They’d come on a coach from Blackburn. They were staying in a nice hotel at the back of the main square. And they’d decided between them that Winter must have been in a road accident.
‘Easily done, love.’ The woman leaned across and patted him on the arm. ‘No one wears the seat belts on these coaches, do they?’
Winter decided to use the morning to explore the curve of bay to the south, telling himself the least he owed Porec was a bit of a poke around. If he was going to be spending a bit of time here, he ought to get to know the place. He paid his bill, said goodbye to the couple from Blackburn and set off.
As soon as he got to the marina, it was obvious that the season had come to an end. Boats were chocked up for the winter on the dockside and a lone cyclist had stopped to feed a small army of cats. Beyond the marina the waterside path led to a concrete lido. There was space for hundreds of bathers, and in high summer Winter could picture the mayhem, but now a man of uncertain age lay staked out on his towel, the lido’s sole occupant, enjoying the September sunshine.
Winter found himself a bench and did the same. After a while the sunbather struggled to his feet and slipped into the water. Winter watched him swimming way out into the bay, a steady breaststroke, nothing splashy, no drama. He made it to a line of buoys and back, and Winter wondered if in his place he’d have the self-discipline to adopt a routine like this. He could certainly lose a pound or two, and if the life he had to lead was to be this solitary then too bad. He could take up gardening. He could make a real effort to understand football. He might even read a book or two.
Beyond the shrouded signs for deckchairs and jet ski hire a waiter was giving his café tables a wipe. Winter had no idea whether this was simply optimistic, but he knew the guy had to make a living and – his mood lifting – he decided to show a bit of solidarity. He walked across, took the table with the best view, ordered a lager and asked for the menu. Miles away, across the water, he could see the white bones of a huge hotel complex. It looked like a cruise liner that had somehow ended up among the pinewoods on the mountainside, and by the time the waiter returned with his lager he was determined to find out more.
‘You get lots of English here? In the summer?’
‘English?’ He shook his head. ‘No. Germans, yes. Dutch, yes. Italians, of course. Some Swedes, maybe. But English? No.’
He put the lager on the table. He’d had a good look at Winter’s face by now and Winter knew he was curious.
‘You’re English?’
‘Yes.’
‘A tourist?’
‘Sort of.’
‘You want to live here?’
Winter stared up at him, wondering whether his interest was that obvious.
‘Maybe,’ he said carefully. ‘What do you think?’
‘What do I think?’ The man laughed. His English was good. ‘I think people like me would like you to say yes. The winter can be hard.’
‘You want my money?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you’re open all the year round?’
‘No. We close next week.’
‘So what happens then?’
‘To me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I go to England.’ Another laugh, softer this time. ‘Where the cafés never close.’
After a second beer Winter phoned Maddox, who said she’d had a slow morning. She’d had time to sort out a whole range of properties. Maybe Winter might like to drop by the agency during the afternoon. Then they could go through them.
‘And something else. I asked Joe about doing you a tatt.’
‘And?’
‘He thinks you’ve got the kiss of death. He fancies something Gothic.’
‘Nice.’ Winter rang off.
An hour with Maddox leafing through a dozen or so properties plunged him back into gloom. The carefully framed colour shots, with all the come-ons about swirl-pools and solar heating, hid the reality of what probably awaited Winter if he chose to bury himself out here. In Maddox’s view the money he was talking would buy him three bedrooms, at least two en-suite, with a bit of land plus a decent view. If he knew where to go, he could pick up a second-hand car for a handful of euros, after which the entire country was his to explore. There was a lovely town down the coast called Rovinj. Venice was only a couple of hours away by high-speed catamaran. She remembered Portsmouth’s charms only too well, but life beside the Adriatic definitely had its advantages.
‘Why would I want three bedrooms?’
Winter knew she was uncomfortable with questions like these. They led to places she didn’t want to go.
‘Guests?’ she suggested. ‘Maybe a girlfriend or two?’
‘Dream on.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I’ll have to be Mr Invisible. Mr Nobody.’
He looked at her, expecting a reaction or at least an ounce or two of sympathy. Instead she glanced at her watch.
‘You think I’m being a wuss?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘What, then?’
‘I think you’re out of your depth. I think life’s got to you.’
‘You think I should have stayed in the Job?’
‘Only you can answer that.’
‘Then the answer’s no. It was impossible. In the end those people were totally out of order. Like I said last night, they nearly killed me.’
‘Then move on.’
‘I did. And look what happened.’
‘Then move on again.’
‘Sure. And here I am. Some lonely old dosser. Making life hard for you.’
‘Not me, Paul. You.’
He was right. He knew it. That night she and Josip were driving down to Pula for the first night of a friend’s new play. She said the guy had a special take on the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the incident that had sparked the First World War, and he’d written the piece as a kind of eco-parable. The thrust, she said, was that events had a habit of getting out of control, and only eternal vigilance could save us from oblivion. Winter, who knew a great deal about events getting out of control, was grateful for the invitation but turned it down. The evening would doubtless confirm that Maddox and her boyfriend were inseparable, and that knowledge would probably finish him off. Better, on balance, to get pissed and go to bed.
It didn’t work. Maddox left him at the door of his lodgings, gave him a kiss and made him promise to get in touch again in the morning. There was a fridge in the room, and she’d bought some stuff in case he felt peckish. For a while he lay on the bed, watching the early-evening news on the tiny wall-mounted television, trying to make sense of each story as it came and went. The video and graphics helped, but the language was impenetrable, and the longer he watched the better he understood that this pretty much represented where he’d ended up. He’d lost touch. Stuff was happening that he no longer understood. That sureness of touch, that firmness of purpose that had badged his working life, seemed to have vanished entirely.
After the news came a game show. Laughter was laughter in whatever language you happened to speak, but the real appeal lay in the muttered asides and the knowing half-jokes – a territory Winter had made his own – and here, once again, he was totally out of
his depth.
He turned the TV off and inspected the fridge. Maddox, bless her, had left him a pile of cold meat brightened with a tomato-and-onion salad. There were a couple of lagers too, and a pot of something that looked like strawberry yoghurt in case he fancied dessert. He cracked one of the lagers, not bothering to hunt down a glass, and raised the tin to his lips. Several streets away he could hear the whine of a motor scooter. Then came footsteps and a brief flurry of movement at the window as someone old and bent shuffled past outside. Then silence again. Winter stood in the gathering darkness, knowing that he had to get out, knowing that this cell-like little room would drive him nuts.
He went back to the sports bar, thinking that Friday nights might be livelier. He was wrong. Apart from a couple of solitary drinkers staring into nowhere the place was empty. Even the bartender seemed to have given up. Winter could make no sense of the scribbled note on the counter but rang the little bell beside it in the hope that someone might appear. A girl came through after a while, poured half a litre of thin lager, ignored Winter’s laboured efforts to strike up a conversation and vanished again. One of the drinkers muttered something Winter didn’t catch. The other one, a ghost of a man, was perched on a nearby stool. His head was down and he seemed to be barely conscious. Winter studied him for a long moment, wondering whether this was the fate that awaited anyone who swapped real life for self-imposed exile, cutting yourself off, hiding yourself away, looking for comfort in the bottom of a glass. How else could a guy like this get through an evening? And what happened when the money ran out?
Winter shook his head, alarmed by the thought, and reached for his lager. Then he changed his mind and passed the brimming glass along the bar. The guy on the stool lifted his head. It was impossible to guess his age. He had the sunken haunted eyes of someone who always expected the worst. His gaze settled on the glass. He was having trouble working out exactly what was supposed to happen next. Join the club, Winter thought. He picked up his jacket and headed once again for the darkness outside.
The following morning, early, Winter washed and shaved. He locked the room, walked the twenty metres up the street and dropped the key through Maddox’s front door. He’d thought about a note to go with it but in the end he didn’t bother.
Happy Days Page 17