‘Paul Winter?’ The voice came as a surprise, lighter than Winter had expected, no trace of the gruffness on the phone. The handshake too was soft. ‘I used this place when I was a student. Practically lived here when I could afford it.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah. It was busier then, mind you. Hard times, love?’
The question was addressed to a thin woman in her late forties who’d just appeared behind the bar. Sturrock’s wink softened the abruptness of the enquiry.
‘Terrible,’ she said. ‘What can I get you?’
He settled for Guinness. Winter swallowed a mouthful of Stella and pushed his glass forward for a top-up. Sturrock was studying the menu.
‘Hungry?’ Winter had seen it already.
‘Starving.’ He was still looking at the barmaid. ‘I’m a veggie, love. What can you sort me out?’
‘Cheese roll. It’s on the next page.’
‘You’ve got onion? Pickle? Mustard?’
‘Just cheese. Who’s paying?’
Winter gave her a ten-pound note. Sturrock settled for a bowl of chips. He wanted to know more about Tide Turn Trust.
‘I googled you lot,’ he said. ‘Very impressive.’
The website had been Marie’s idea. Winter hadn’t been sure about some of the copy. Promises to glue fractured lives back together sounded wonderful in theory, and so did the line about turning long-term liabilities into society’s assets, but Bazza loved bullshit phrases like these so Winter’s scope for protest had been strictly limited.
‘So what do you think?’
‘About Tide Turn? Honestly?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think it’s fucking hard. In fact I know it’s fucking hard. But if you’re telling me you’ve found a way then fair play to you. These little commando raids are often better value than the big set-piece battles.’
‘Commando raids?’ Winter was lost.
‘Take a few hostages. Work hard on them. Turn the little bastards round. The problem guys like me had was volume. Join a local authority and the client base just gets bigger and bigger. Why? Because we have to sort these buggers out. It’s statutory. It says so in black and white. And the longer you do it, the more of them appear. Now that may be a sign of the times, God knows, but they were fucking all over us come the finish.’
‘Were?’
‘Yeah.’ He frowned. ‘How much do you know about me?’
Winter shrugged, said he knew very little. In these situations it was always better to feign ignorance.
‘That’s kosher? You don’t know about the conference? Everything that’s gone down since?’
Winter hesitated. Carol Legge may have primed him. Better to cover his arse.
‘I know you had some kind of run-in up in London. In fact I read the speech.’
‘And?’
‘Brilliant. I used to be a cop until I knew better. If I had a quid for every day I had to wade through all that managerial bollocks I’d be a rich man.’
‘Is that why you quit the job?’
‘No.’
‘But you saw what I was driving at?’
‘Completely. Brave boy. They must have loved you.’
‘They did, most of them. Not the bosses of course. The bloke who’d given me the speech to read went ape.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He didn’t. Next day, back at the office, I got suspended by email. Fifteen minutes to clear my desk. I even had to lean on the security guard for a couple of cardboard boxes.’
‘And now?’
‘Nothing’s changed. I’m in limbo. I’m a non-person. I’ve been banished. They call it gardening leave but maybe the joke’s on them. We’re out in the country, me and the good lady, and we’ve got a fair spread. Last time I looked, we had enough veg to feed half the village. I go door to door, flogging the stuff. The local kids can’t work out why my van hasn’t got Tesco on the side. Big learning curve.’
‘You?’
‘Them. Life should be more than fucking supermarkets. The more I do it, the more I love it.’
‘So why would you need Tide Turn?’
‘Because it’s not enough, my friend. You have to get real here. I’ve spent most of my working life with problem kids and the truth is I miss them. Just how challenging is a row of parsnips? Even ones as knobbly as mine?’
For the first time Winter caught a whiff of bitterness. What little he knew about life on the Isle of Wight told him it was claustrophobic. Everyone knew your business. And if word spread about your so-called disgrace then you were probably doomed.
‘Does your wife work?’
‘Partner. And the answer’s yes.’
‘Same line of business?’
‘She’s a psychotherapist. She deals with kids occasionally but mostly it’s adults.’
‘Grown-ups?’
‘Adults.’
Winter liked the distinction. His laughter brought a grin to Sturrock’s face. Winter was starting to wonder how often that happened.
‘It must have been tough,’ he said. A statement, not a question.
Sturrock studied him a moment. He hadn’t touched his Guinness.
‘You’re right.’ He nodded. ‘It is.’
‘Still?’
‘More and more in some ways, less so in others. I don’t miss the meetings. I don’t really miss the culture if I’m honest. But the blokes down at the coalface, the social workers, the teams we were putting out there, all that was great. You’re in the business of constant challenge. You’ve got to know how to press people’s buttons, how to get the very best out of them. It’s the same with the clients, the kids you have to deal with. None of them are monsters, they’ve just come unstuck, and once you realise that then everything else follows. We live all the time with the instant fix. It’s everywhere. Dream up some new fucking initiative, wave a magic wand, and everything’s sorted. Problem is, that never works. You have to get to know these kids. That takes time. And time takes money. To put someone from my team alongside an individual kid for - say - nine months costs the earth, and scoring that kind of funding isn’t easy. But I’ve managed it a couple of times and, believe me, it works. These kids trust nobody. Building that trust, keeping it, is what really matters.’
At last, he reached for his glass. Winter watched him take a couple of swallows then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d known from the start that Bazza would take to this guy. He was authentic. He was rough around the edges. Beyond the macho bluster he was a bit of a dreamer as well, but he obviously had the bollocks to speak his mind.
‘There are kids in this city who might put all that to the test.’
‘I know. I worked here.’
‘And you think you could hack it?’
‘I know I could. I’m not talking about the job now, if there is a job; I’m talking about my own experience. What works on the island works in Pompey. If you don’t believe that then you might as well chuck it in.’
‘Tesco’s? Stacking shelves?’
‘Never.’ He laughed again. ‘I haven’t got the brain.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Willard descended on the Major Crime suite shortly after lunch. Faraday, summoned from his office, found the Head of CID in conference with Gail Parsons.
Willard was a big man, physically imposing. He’d earned a career-long reputation as a copper’s copper and now found himself in charge of Hantspol’s detectives. Promotion had given Willard a taste for expensive suits plus the beginnings of a national profile and Faraday knew that he now had his eye on an ACPO job. Assistant Chief Constable in a decent force could open all kinds of interesting doors once he’d done his thirty years.
For now, though, he was preoccupied with Melody. Major Crime had taken a great deal of stick from the media when the hunt for Tim Morrissey’s killer had stalled and now was the time to put the record straight. Willard had always been extremely sensitive to criticism of any kind, especially from the press.
‘She lives up on the estate. Munday was there pretty much when it suited him.’
‘You think they were close?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. She’s a smackhead. Most of the time she’s out of it.’
‘Who broke the news?’
‘Steph Callan sent a FLO round. Three in the morning.’
‘One of ours?’
‘No. She’s on the Road Death team.’
‘So what happened?’
‘She went to the mother’s address with the death message but couldn’t get any sense out of her. She went back next morning to pick the woman up for the ID but she was all over the place, totally strung out. It got so bad that the FLO was tempted to try and score some morphine from the one of the techies.’
‘At the hospital, you mean?’
‘Yes. She had to drive her over to Winchester to ID the body.’
Willard shot a glance at Parsons, digesting the news. Then he turned back to Faraday.
‘So who was supplying the gear on the estate?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir.’
‘You think it might have been her son? Munday?’
‘It’s possible. I don’t know.’
‘But she’s vulnerable? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Definitely.’
At last Faraday sensed where all this was leading. Willard wanted more names for Melody, more kids who might have helped take Tim Morrissey to the grave, more evidence to fuel a round of high-profile arrests to counter the impression that Major Crimes were off the pace. And, in her current state, some of that information might well come from Munday’s mother.
‘You need to talk to the FLO, Joe. Get her back in there. Shake a few trees. Tell her to have a poke around.’
‘What happens if the Road Death lot kick up? I get the impression they’re under the cosh just now.’
‘Put in one of our own FLOs. In that kind of state, Mrs Munday won’t notice the difference.’ He paused, then bent to his briefcase and pulled out a file. Faraday caught sight of an operational name on the cover - S-something. ‘Gail tells me you’ve just come back from leave. Montreal? Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good time?’
‘Wonderful.’
Willard caught the heaviness in Faraday’s voice but let it pass. His fingers toyed with the file for a moment then he pushed it across the table.
‘Gail also says you’ve got time on your hands, Joe, so this one’s for you. Cold case. Operation Sangster. Take a look and tell me what you think. I’m back in the office on Monday. Ring me.’
Winter found Marie at the Royal Trafalgar. Mackenzie had recently installed a modest gym in the hotel’s basement and Marie, who rarely bothered with lunch, was working out on a second-hand rowing machine Bazza claimed to have acquired from a health spa in Albert Road that had gone bust.
Like her daughter, Marie put a lot of thought into what she wore for these sessions. Now in her late forties, she’d managed to keep her figure, and the tan leotard clung to the firm swell of her breasts as she pushed hard against the footplate at the end of the slide. Winter stood beside the open door a moment, wondering why Bazza would ever waste a second with anyone else. Even Misty Gallagher couldn’t hold a candle to this woman.
The gym was empty. One entire wall was mirrored and Winter was aware of Marie watching him as he walked across towards her. She slowed on the machine and then stopped completely, her head down, the leotard blotched dark with sweat. It was a second or two before she found the breath to talk. Her face was pinked with effort.
‘You want to be careful, my love.’ Winter settled on the wooden bench beside her. ‘I’d hate you to go pop.’
‘You would?’ She reached for a towel and mopped her face. As she did so Winter caught the hint of lemons, a fragrance so subtle Bazza would never have noticed.
‘I just met the man,’ Winter said. ‘And I think we’ve scored a winner. ’
He told her about Mo Sturrock. The guy was under professional sentence of death. Sooner or later, once they’d given up trying to nail him on countless other charges, his bosses would be giving him the boot for bringing the organisation into disrepute. Before that happened, it might be in everyone’s interests to put the man back to work.
‘Disrepute?’
Winter explained about the conference. In the six months that followed, Sturrock had received upwards of a hundred emails, all of them confidential, all of them applauding his impromptu speech.
‘Says who?’
‘Sturrock.’
‘And we believe him?’
‘We do.’
‘On what basis?’
‘Intuition, love.’ Winter tapped the side of his nose. ‘I might be a fat old bastard but not much gets past, believe me.’
Marie studied him a moment. Winter thought she was fond of him and he wasn’t wrong. Very slowly, she began to move herself up and down the slide.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘That makes three of you, then.’
‘Three what?’
‘Three mavericks. You, Baz and now this other guy.’
‘His name’s Sturrock.’
‘Sturrock.’ She nodded. ‘And you really think he can hack it?’
‘I do, my love. And you know what? We’ve struck lucky. A word in the right ear and he can start pretty much immediately. All we have to do is talk nicely to his boss.’
‘How much does he want?’
‘He was on forty-seven K come the finish.’
‘How much did you offer?’
‘Twenty-five for starters. Plus a performance review after six months.’
‘How do we measure performance?’
‘Body count. He gets a five-grand bonus for each of the little bastards he kills. Girls count extra.’ Winter shot her a grin. ‘Do I hear a yes?’
‘I’ll have to run it past Baz. The way he is at the moment, he won’t even listen. I’ve never seen him like this. Even that bloody woman upstairs can’t sort him out.’
Winter ducked his head, aware that Marie was watching him in the mirror again. Marie had never stooped to mentioning Chandelle before. Something must have really got to her, he thought.
‘Listen …’ he began. ‘What’s Bazza not telling us?’
There was a long silence. Then a soft laugh.
‘You want a list?’
‘I’m talking about the business.’
‘I know you are, Paul. I think about it all the time. That and one or two other things. But you’re right. I can read him like a book, believe it or not, and he’s definitely hiding something, something to do with Esme.’
‘Which she might have shared with lover boy?’
‘Yes.’
‘And which might screw us?’
‘Yes. Personally, I think that’s unlikely. I probably know Esme better than she knows herself. She can be far too emotional for her own good sometimes, just like her dad, but there’s something rock solid inside that no amount of booze or sex can ever reach.’
‘Just like her dad?’
‘Yeah … if only.’ She shook her head then extended a hand. ‘Help me up?’
Winter got to his feet and took her weight. She was tall for a woman, barely a couple of inches shorter than Winter. Lemons, Winter thought again.
‘You know where he is at the moment?’ Her eyes had a frankness he’d never seen before.
‘No idea, my love.’
‘Can’t even guess?’
‘No point.’
‘Then I’ll tell you.’
‘Don’t.’ Winter’s face was inches from hers. Over her shoulder, reflected in the mirrored wall, he had a perfect view of the door. The door had opened. Silhouetted against the harsh neon of the corridor outside was the familiar stocky figure, totally immobile. Mackenzie.
‘Fuck me. Not you as wel
l, Marie.’ There was a cackle of laughter. He’d obviously been watching them.
Marie’s eyes had closed. There was something infinitely secret about her smile and for a split second Winter thought he’d been set up. Then he recognised that this was for real. He turned round. Bazza was picking his way between pieces of gym equipment, his eyes fixed on Winter. At moments of extreme tension the blood seemed to drain from his face. Just now he was the colour of death.
His finger came out, jabbing and jabbing. ‘I don’t know what you’re fucking up to, mush, but don’t. You understand that? Not now. Not here. Not ever. You lay a finger on my missus and you’ll never walk again.’
‘Baz—’
‘Don’t Baz me. And don’t think I’m just blaming you.’ He spun round to find Marie stooping to pick up her towel. ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’
‘Home.’
‘Not yet, you’re not. Not until we’ve had a little sort-out.’ He turned back to Winter. ‘You cushty with what I just said, mush? Only it might get fucking messy if you’re not. Just say yes or no.’
‘Yes, Baz.’
‘Good. Something else. Last time we talked like human fucking beings you said you were going to get hold of a bloke called Faraday. About Madison. Comprende?’
‘Yes, Baz.’
‘And?’
‘He’s not been around.’
‘Well fucking find him, mush. Like now. Like this afternoon. Like tonight. You got that?’
‘Yes, Baz.’
‘Good. Then fuck off and leave us alone.’
Winter stole a look at Marie. In moods like this Mackenzie could be truly frightening but she seemed perfectly calm, weathering a storm that must have happened countless times before.
She began to say something placatory, oil on troubled waters, but Bazza wasn’t having it. As she tried to step over the rowing machine, putting distance between them, he grabbed her upper arm. She froze for a second, then turned on him.
‘I’m going to count to three,’ she said softly. ‘One … two …’ Bazza’s grip slackened. Free, she began to rub her arm. The flesh was reddening already. Then she took a tiny step forward and slapped Bazza hard across the face.
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