He gave Gabrielle’s hand a squeeze. She’d given him back his sanity. With her cheerfulness and her sheer energy, she’d made him aware of another presence in the deeply shadowed recess that was his life. She was a fellow traveller. And like him, thank God, she had more than a passing interest in the view.
‘Chéri?’ She was bent over him. She was looking worried again. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You were dreaming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Un cauchemar?’ Cauchemar meant nightmare.
‘No.’ He found her hand again.
The invitation came in the early afternoon. Winter, returning from his weekend expedition to the supermarket, was standing in the sunshine outside Blake House watching the female cabbie unload his shopping from the boot. The mobile to his ear, he knew at once who it was. Add gravel to honey and you ended up with a voice like Misty Gallagher’s.
‘Mist, how are you?’
She said she’d been better but she’d spare him the details. It was a lovely day. From what she’d been hearing, Winter had at last decided to do something sensible with his life.
‘We ought to celebrate,’ she growled. ‘Come over.’
Winter skipped lunch, sorted himself out a brand new short-sleeved shirt to go with his Debenhams chinos and phoned for another cab. Pompey were playing at home and the queues of cars inbound on the motorway extended for mile after mile. They left the city and headed east. Within half an hour they’d crossed the bridge onto neighbouring Hayling Island and Winter was directing the cabbie into North Shore Road, a leafy avenue on the south-west corner of Hayling that featured regularly in the windows of the classier estate agents. This was where you settled if you had half a million quid to spare and fancied a bit of peace and quiet. Misty’s spread, a gift from Bazza, was last on the left.
The last time Winter had been here, the property was at the mercy of a crew of Pompey builders Bazza kept on his books. At Misty’s direction they were turning up from time to time to rip out most of the original features, swap wooden windows for UPVC and dig an enormous hole in the back garden for a twenty-metre pool. Another of Misty’s projects had been an outdoor disco. The plans, which Winter had seen, called for banks of strobe lighting visible from the moon and a 75-kilowatt sound system, and at the time Winter remembered fearing for the neighbours’ peace and quiet. Misty had never much liked silence.
She was waiting for him on the terrace at the back of the house. She was wearing a turquoise Prada T-shirt over a black bikini bottom and her face was largely hidden behind a pair of enormous FCUK shades. On the table beside her lounger was a radio tuned to Virgin AM. She’d made a promising start on a bottle of Bacardi and said she felt a great deal better. Last night had been a bummer. She hadn’t drunk that much malt since Bazza pushed the boat out at her warming party.
Winter bent to give her a peck on the cheek and helped himself to a chair at the table. Somebody must have been using the pool because there was a trail of wet footprints into the house.
‘Yours, Mist?’
‘You’re joking. I’ve got company for the weekend. One of Baz’s nephews.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Getting changed. You know something about kids these days? They have absolutely no idea of time. His game kicks off at three. It’s now ten to.’
A blond youth in his late teens appeared from the depths of the house. He was wearing shorts and an Umbro top and borrowed Misty’s vanity mirror to poke at the gel on his hair. Misty told him he was late.
‘Got the keys, have you?’
‘They’re still in the Porsche.’
‘Cheers.’ He gave Winter a nod. ‘Be good.’
He danced down the steps beside the pool without a backward glance. Misty watched him with obvious affection.
‘He’s gay,’ she said fondly. ‘Though he doesn’t know it yet.’
She told Winter to fetch more Coke from the kitchen. She also wanted the tanning oil and a fresh packet of Marlboro Lights. Winter returned with all three.
‘What do you think, then?’ She lit a cigarette and gestured at the garden. Half an acre of lawn rolled down to a low stone wall. A gate in the wall led to a wooden pier. Beyond, shimmering in the heat, lay Langstone Harbour. On a windless day like this the water was mirror-smooth.
‘Lovely, Mist.’
Winter narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun. The Harbour was Hayling’s moat against the encroachments of Pompey. Viewed from this distance, the high-rise blocks of Somerstown and Portsea were a soft blue-grey in the haze. They looked like battlements, Winter thought, or the kind of cut-out frieze a kid might paste onto a picture. Rearing above them, plainly visible, was the sleek whiteness of the Spinnaker Tower.
‘There …’
Mist struggled upright on the lounger, following Winter’s pointing finger.
‘Where?’
‘The one by itself, Mist. That’s Faraday’s place. Funny you should end up neighbours.’
The Bargemaster’s House was no more than a speck across the water. Misty sank back then reached up for her glass. She wanted to know the gossip.
Winter tried to sort something out but knew he was struggling. One of the penalties of this new life of his was a social diary that rarely extended beyond appointments with the telly. Finally he remembered Suttle.
‘Jimmy? How is he?’
‘Fine. I saw him the other night. He’s putting a deposit down on a place in Copnor. He got a bit of money after that job in Ashburton Road but he won’t say how much. What’s the going rate for a stabbing these days? Ten grand? A million?’
Misty laughed, then raised her glass. In general she had no time for the Filth but she’d always had a soft spot for Suttle.
‘Good luck to him. Shame it never worked out with Trude.’
Trudy Gallagher was Misty’s daughter, a looker in her late teens with her mother’s appetite for a good time. She’d enjoyed a brief fling with Suttle some time ago, an act of trespass for which the young D/C had been duly punished. Bazza had always believed that he was Trudy’s father. As it turned out he was wrong, but Bazza wasn’t someone to let a paternity test get in the way of his family responsibilities and, thanks to Brett West, Suttle had ended up in hospital.
‘You’re telling me you had a drink with Jimmy?’ Misty wanted to know more.
‘I did, Mist. I did.’
‘Isn’t that crossing the line?’
‘What line’s that?’
‘Us and them. There’s rules, you know, not that you were ever fucking interested. Still, you want to be careful. Baz gets old-fashioned about the wrong kind of company.’
Winter shrugged, all too aware where the conversation was going to lead. Odds on, it was Bazza who’d engineered this invitation of Misty’s. Get the old bastard over. Find out where he’s really at.
Winter smothered a yawn. Very faintly, across the water, came the roar of the crowd at Fratton Park. The game must have just kicked off, he thought. He gave his ample stomach a pat, then looked down at the lounger.
‘Are we eating, Mist? Or what?’
She’d readied a couple of Waitrose takeaways in the fridge. Winter did the honours, sorting out the plates and the cutlery, then waiting for the ding-ding of the microwave. Misty had already laid claim to the king prawn masala. The shepherd’s pie, Winter thought glumly, was obviously his.
Back out in the sunshine Misty had shed her T-shirt and was straddling the lounger. Her tan was as flawless as the famous chest that had drawn Bazza in the first place, and she was about to coat herself with more coconut oil. She had her glass in one hand and the bottle of oil in the other. Always the optimist, Winter thought his moment had come.
‘You OK there, Mist?’ He put the plates on the table. ‘Need any help?’
Misty ignored the offer. She abandoned her glass and began to oil her breasts. She wanted to know why Winter had finally said yes to Bazza. The word she used was ‘surprised�
�.
‘You know already, Mist. You don’t need me to tell you.’
‘Those pictures?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re joking. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, love. I’ve seen one even smaller than that.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So why the decision? Nobody does what you’ve done for a bunch of bloody snaps. Not in a grown-up town like this.’
‘I fancied it.’
‘Yeah, I can see that. But why?’
Winter gave the question some thought. These last few days he was beginning to get irritated by having to explain himself again and again but with Misty it was somehow different. He’d known her for years, and that knowledge had bred something close to respect. You underestimated Misty Gallagher at your peril, a mistake you only made once.
‘Mist …’ he began.
She looked up, her attention caught by something new in his voice.
‘Yeah?’
‘If I was to tell you the truth, what would you say?’
‘Are we talking secrets here?’ She’d abandoned her breasts for a moment. ‘Only this could be awkward. Me and Baz … you know.’
‘Not secrets, Mist. Just the truth.’
‘OK.’ She nodded. She was looking puzzled. ‘Go on then.’
Winter eyed the food a moment. He wanted to confide in her. He wanted to tell her how tough this whole thing was. He wanted to explain something of the confusion that boiled inside his aching head. Nothing to do with Covert Ops and ambitious D/Is eager to win a medal or two at his expense. Nothing to do with the hideous complications of this double life of his. But something far simpler. Just who the fuck was he?
He tried the question out, unvoiced. Then he shook his head. He’d sound like an adolescent. He’d remind her of Bazza’s gelled-up nephew with his giddy little ways.
‘Those pictures …’ he began.
‘What about them, love?’
‘It was more than … you know … what you think. It was more than that.’
‘I’m not with you. They were having a laugh, weren’t they?’
‘Yeah, sure … but it didn’t feel that way.’
‘No? You’re telling me they scared you?’
‘Yeah. Definitely. It wasn’t the obvious. I didn’t think I was in for a battering. They’d never have done anything, you know, really silly. I knew that. No …’ He shook his head. ‘It was something else.’
‘Like what?’
‘I just felt …’ he frowned ‘… exposed. Not in the naked way. Not freezing my bollocks off. Just … stripped bare.’
‘You mean vulnerable.’
‘Yeah, exactly, vulnerable.’
‘And now?’
‘The same. Exactly the same. And you know why? Because for once in my life I’ve no idea what happens next. Do you have any idea how scary that is, Mist? I’m a copper. I’ve made things happen. I’ve had my way with people. Apart from the tumour, I’ve bossed every single corner of my life since forever. Now all that’s gone. Now someone else is in charge.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘Good question, Mist. But it certainly isn’t fucking me.’
He turned away, surprised and slightly embarrassed by the force of his feelings. She gazed at him a moment, then extended a hand.
‘Help me up,’ she said.
Winter did her bidding. The palm of her hand was slippery with oil. Then he felt her arms encircling his body, the moistness of her breasts pressing softly against his chest, her fingers cupping the back of his head. Everything smelled of coconut.
‘I don’t know what to say, Mist.’
‘Say nothing, love.’ Her mouth was close to his ear. ‘But take advice from someone who knows, eh?’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Don’t fuck us about.’
Eleven
MONDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER 2006. 10.01
Martin Barrie had fixed the appointment over the weekend. The Duty Officer in Downing Street had passed on his request and the bid for an interview had pinballed around the party machine until a special adviser in the Ministry of Education and Skills phoned him back. She was happy to talk to detectives from the Billhook squad about Jonathan Mallinder. She understood the interview was strictly for the purposes of background information. She’d had sight of the file and she wasn’t anticipating a lengthy meeting. On the contrary, they might find themselves spending more time trying to fix themselves a decent coffee than discussing the degree of Mr Mallinder’s political involvement.
Barrie had passed on the conversation more or less word for word but Faraday only remembered the reference to coffee when he and Suttle stepped into the pokey House of Commons office and saw the state of the percolator.
‘I’ll settle for tea, thanks,’ he said, shedding his coat.
The special adviser had been camping in the office during the parliamentary recess and apologised again for the state of the place. Her name was Suzanne. She wore a permanent air of near-exhaustion and had a nervous habit of constantly referring to notes on her clipboard. Top of her priority list, thought Faraday, should have been a decent holiday.
Faraday wanted to confirm a timeline. Suttle’s earlier analysis of e-mails from Mallinder’s laptop had established correspondence dating back to 2003.
‘That’s right.’ Suzanne had swapped the clipboard for a buff file with Mallinder’s name in black Pentel across the top. ‘Someone from membership contacted him in June that year. We were trawling for donations.’
‘He was a member of the party?’
‘Lapsed.’ Her finger found an entry in the file. ‘He joined before the 97 election, paid his subs until 2001, then sent us a letter saying he was holding off for a while. That’s a pretty common story, I’m afraid. Talk to the Tories and you’ll find they have exactly the same problem.’
‘So why chase him for a donation? If he wasn’t even a member?’
‘Because someone passed on a tip. Said it might be worth the price of a stamp.’
‘And who might that someone be?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
The party’s tap on Mallinder’s shoulder was successful. In August 2003, he renewed his membership, wrote a cheque for a £4,000 donation, and accepted an invitation to attend a breakfast meeting with senior New Labour figures on the second morning of the annual conference, down in Bournemouth.
‘Any idea who he talked to?’
‘It doesn’t say. He’d be one of at least a hundred invited guests, maybe more. Normally we try and sprinkle the senior people around, get them to circulate, but it’s not always easy.’
‘How senior?’
‘Cabinet level.’ She forced a weary smile. ‘If he was really lucky.’
‘Secretary of State for Defence?’ It was Suttle.
‘It’s possible. Or, failing him, one of the junior ministers. It really depends on everyone’s schedule. Conference week can be mad.’
‘But would there be a record?’
‘I don’t know. It’s certainly not in here …’ She nodded down at the file.
Suttle made a note. Faraday wanted to know whether there’d have been other opportunities for Mallinder to bend a ministerial ear.
‘Someone from the MoD, you mean? At conference?’
‘Yes.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘What about back in London?’
‘He could try. Just like everyone else.’ Her eye strayed to the file again. ‘Is there a particular issue you have in mind?’
Faraday didn’t answer. Instead, he wanted to know about Mallinder’s interest in City Academies. This time Suzanne was date-perfect.
‘He approached us about a year ago, in August 2005. I gather he’d bumped into someone at a party. They’d been telling him about the Business Academy down in Bexley. He wanted to talk to somebody at the Ministry about the next tranche of projects.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I agreed to meet him.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. I’ve been shadowing the Academies programme for a couple of years. I’m pretty much up to speed, certainly as far as this kind of contact was concerned. It was a very provisional enquiry. A fishing expedition, really.’
‘And did you get the impression that Mallinder was serious?’
‘In some respects, yes. But that really wasn’t very helpful. He made all the right noises educationally. He was keen on coming up with a more balanced curriculum, for instance. I remember that very well. And he also ticked all the right boxes when it came to the community regeneration stuff. But when we got down to it, there turned out to be a problem.’
‘Which was?’
‘He didn’t have the money.’
Suttle tried to hide a smile. Even Faraday looked faintly amused.
‘Did this come as a surprise?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you check out these individuals beforehand?’
‘Of course we do, but detailed financial data isn’t always easy to get hold of. In these situations we tend to rely on people’s good faith, and most of the time that works. Mr Mallinder, I’m afraid, was an exception.’
Faraday recalled a key line from Suttle’s intelligence analysis, highlighted in yellow on the brief he’d e-mailed across.
‘I understand there was another meeting back in February this year. By this time your colleagues appeared to be discussing a project in some detail. Down in Portsmouth.’
‘That’s right. I was involved in that too.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Mr Mallinder had laid hands on two and a half million pounds.’
‘Where from?’
‘I gather it was a bank loan. Secured on his business.’
‘Did you see the paperwork?’
‘Not personally.’
‘But someone else did?’
‘Of course. Otherwise we’d never have got that far. I think there was some talk of him making the party a loan to begin with, but for some reason that didn’t work out so we started talking about the Academies programme.’
‘And this project was going to happen?’
The Price Of Darkness Page 16