Blood And Honey (19 page)

Winter peered at the details that followed, making notes of a landline number plus a mobile. The email address was
[email protected]
. Returning to the PC, he looked at the emails again. Messages from Hararian appeared with depressing regularity. Winter stationed the mouse over one of them, wondering whether to pursue this search any further. What was he trying to prove here? Except that whores lied for a living?

He closed his eyes, knowing that he had to do it and knowing too that the next couple of seconds would lead to nothing but grief. For once in his life, much against his better judgement, he’d trusted somebody. And, to no one’s surprise, he’d been royally screwed.

The message was brutally short. ‘
Fantastique, eh, mon ours?
’ Winter hadn’t a clue what
ours
meant but the rest was only too obvious. Did Wishart have to buy compliments like these? Were these extras on his account for which Maddox charged premium rates? He suspected not. Scrolling onwards, he steadied the pointer over the most recent email. Maddox had written to him ten days ago, a message that simply confirmed some arrangement they’d made. ‘As usual I’ll be late. As usual you’ll be pissed off. And as usual we’ll be wonderful,’ she’d written, sealing the missive with a line of crosses.

Winter stepped away from the computer, wondering
quite what to do next. A phone console lay next to the PC. Winter picked up the receiver and pressed the
PLAY
button for messages. There were five. None, to his relief, were from Maddox but the last voice confirmed a booking for Friday night, earlier than usual, seven o’clock, table by the window. The accent might have been French. Winter keyed 1471 for the last incoming number and listened to a line of digits. 01730. Petersfield. He jotted down the rest of the number. The phone directory was on the floor beside the desk. 762398 was Mon Plaisir.

Winter went to the window, opening a gap between the blinds, glad of the thin sunshine on his face. Any minute now he’d develop another headache. He knew it. Should he bother with tearing the bedroom apart? Should he challenge his own frail chemistry with a sackful of porno shots, Maddox giving Wishart his money’s worth, teasing the slack-faced bastard with yet another variation on a weekly theme? Might there be love letters in there? Clinching proof, if he needed it, that Maddox’s warped take on relationships somehow extended to bizarre games like these?

He lingered by the view, unusually oblivious to a well-built blonde woman scrubbing the foredeck of one of the yachts below, then returned to the Amex statement to make sure he hadn’t got it wrong, but the payments to Steve Richardson were there in black and white, £ 2400 in the last month. So why was Wishart still spending that kind of money if Maddox was so keen? And, more to the point, why should any of this bullshit matter to Winter?

He closed his eyes a moment, remembering the scalp massage she’d given him last night, the scent of the oils she’d used, the way the pressure of her fingertips seemed to build a dyke against the recurrent pain that
had begun to alarm him so much. He’d pay good money for treatment like that, be glad to, and the very thought brought a wry smile to his face. Maybe, after all, he was no different to Wishart and the rest of the clientele at Camber Court. Maddox didn’t deal with real people at all, only punters.

‘Well?’

It was Suttle. He’d found nothing next door, either in the living room or the kitchen, and he wanted a steer on just how serious this search was supposed to be. Should he start giving the cupboards a proper seeing-to? Should he be lifting the fitted carpet and digging around behind the skirting board? Only he had a bit of a lower back problem, recent squash injury, and if they were up for the full nine yards then someone should be making a call for reinforcements.

Winter barely heard him. Another entry on the Amex billing had caught his eye. £ 4299 to a travel agent in Southsea. Was this business? Some kind of family holiday? Or was Maddox extending her favours to some exotic location, courtesy of the man who paid her bills? The fact that he didn’t know, and shouldn’t be bothered, simply compounded his frustration. Something was happening to him, deep inside his head, only this time it had nothing to do with the pains that had been plaguing him for weeks. What was at stake this time was his judgement. Suttle was right. He’d completely lost it.

‘Well, boss?’

The young DC sounded almost sympathetic. Winter looked at him, despairing.

‘Fuck knows,’ he said.

Tuesday, 24 February 2004

‘Why don’t we get her down to take a look at the body?’

Faraday had been exploring exactly the same proposition a couple of hours earlier. A positive ID from Unwin’s mother might save a great deal of time. Now, easing the Mondeo down Bath Road, he glanced at Barber and shook his head.

‘I need to talk to the pathologist first. The body’s in a real state. An ID could be tricky.’

‘Birthmarks? Something personal only a mum would recognise?’

‘I doubt it. Four months in the oggin and there’s bugger all left.’

‘Yuk.’ Barber was scanning the numbers on her side of the road. ‘There, look. The one with the fridge in the front garden.’

Faraday braked. Number 267 was a narrow, bay-fronted house with a loop of TV aerial hanging from the roof. A poster in the front window advertised a pre-Xmas anti-war rally in the Guildhall Square.

Faraday found a parking spot at the end of the street and they walked back to 267. Barber’s knock brought a woman to the door. She was in her early twenties, slightly built, bare feet, jeans, hooded top with ‘Penn State’ across the front.

She peered at Barber’s warrant card.

‘Police?’ she said blankly.

She invited them in. The narrow hall was in semidarkness. Faraday squeezed past a mountain bike and followed her into the kitchen at the back. Potato peelings lay heaped on the kitchen table and a copy of
Socialist Worker
was open at an article on the landed gentry. A big pot of lentils bubbling on the stove did nothing to disguise the heavy scent of marijuana.

‘And you are?’

‘Marie.’

‘Marie who?’

‘Marie Grossman.’ She folded her arms and perched herself on a battered stool. ‘What’s this about?’

Barber explained about Chris Unwin. She had grounds to believe he might be living here.

‘Chris?’ Marie shook her head. ‘Haven’t seen him since …’ she frowned ‘… back end of last year.’

‘You know him, though?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He lived here with you?’

‘He lived here, yeah. Not with me, though. I had another place. Kind of squat, really.’

‘So how well do you know him?’

‘Chris? I suppose I know him like everyone else knows him. Same pubs, same gigs, know what I mean?’ She studied her bitten fingernails a moment. ‘Actually, he’s a bit of a dickhead. I know I shouldn’t be saying it, especially not to you lot, but he is.’

‘Dickhead how?’ Faraday asked.

‘He can be a bit mad. And silly too. Pulls daft stunts; thinks he’s the business. One time he tried to get me over to France with him. Terrific, I said, so where are we kipping? He hadn’t got an answer to that so it had to be the back of his bloody van.’

Faraday wanted to know more about the van. Did it belong to Unwin?

‘Haven’t a clue. He always makes like it is but that doesn’t count for anything, not with Chris.’

‘What kind of van are we talking about?’ Barber had produced her pocketbook.

‘A white one.’

‘Make?’

‘Dunno.’ Marie shrugged, reaching for a packet of Rizlas. ‘Is he in trouble or something? Is that why you’re here?’

‘Why do you ask that, Marie?’ It was Faraday this time.

‘Dunno. But it’s not a social call, is it?’

Faraday conceded the point with a nod, then pressed her further, trying to build a fuller picture of Unwin: the names of people he mixed with, where he might be living, the pubs he used, whether he ever talked about trips to the Isle of Wight, how many times he went over to France, what he might be doing there. Only the last question sparked any kind of response.

‘He’s after furniture,’ Marie said. ‘He goes to auctions in these little villages, gets the stuff for a song, then brings it back and flogs it to antique dealers. I nearly had a big old bed off him once, lovely thing, but he wanted silly money.’

‘Where are these antique dealers? Here? Pompey?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He won’t touch the local dealers. He always says the real money’s out in the country. Don’t ask me where though. I never asked.’

Faraday changed tack.

‘Does he have a girlfriend that you know of?’

‘No idea. Probably not.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because he’s so –’ she frowned ‘– immature. He
might find himself some fifteen-year-old, some kid he could impress with his crap French and his Led Zeppelin CDs, but anyone with half a brain wouldn’t give him the time of day.’

‘You think he might be gay?’

‘I doubt it. He wouldn’t have the imagination.’

The comment brought a grunt of laughter from Tracy Barber, then she exchanged looks with Faraday. For the second time today they seemed to be getting nowhere.

‘So there’s nothing left of him here?’ Faraday gestured back towards the door. ‘He didn’t leave anything behind? Clothes? Knick-knacks? Nothing with his photo in?’

‘Definitely not. There’s five of us living here at the moment and believe me we don’t have that kind of space.’ She concentrated on the roll-up for a moment or two, and reached for a box of matches. Then she looked up again. ‘Is that it?’ She nodded at the lentils on the stove. ‘Only I’m the one who’s cooking tea today.’

It took Paul Winter most of the evening to decide what to do about Maddox. Finally, from a bar in Gunwharf, he dialled her number. As the number rang he picked his way between the tables and pushed out through the big glass doors. Across the harbour, the lights of Gosport.

‘Maddox? It’s Paul Winter.’

‘Hi. I’ve been worried about you.’

‘Yeah? Why’s that, then?’

‘Your head. It needs fixing.’

Winter could only agree. He hadn’t been in a state like this since a long-ago fling with a woman called Misty Gallagher. Like Maddox, she had a body to die
for. And like Maddox, she didn’t seem to care who she shared it with.

‘What do you want to do then?’

‘Come round.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve got something to show you.’

Winter could think of a thousand reasons why this was a thoroughly bad idea but knew he was lost. This was a game they were playing and the best he could do right now was try and understand the rules.

‘Give me ten minutes.’ He began to button his car coat. ‘Some more of that brandy might be nice.’

She was waiting for him when he tucked the Subaru into a space across the road outside the flats, a tall angular silhouette in the tenth-floor window. She gave him a wave as he looked up, then pulled the curtains with a flourish. Lost, thought Winter again.

The flat felt warm after the chill of the wind off the sea. Maddox was wearing a long silky kaftan in a rich dark blue. She took his coat and led him by the hand towards the sofa. The swelling on her face had begun to subside and Winter could smell mint on her breath.

‘Whatever you like.’ She was looking down at him. ‘On the house.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘I’m offering you sex. All you have to say is yes.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

Winter could only stare at her. He’d thought of nothing else all day. Yet here it was, the bluntest of proposals, and he knew he couldn’t do it. Not like this.

‘Is there a problem?’ Maddox had settled herself beside him.

‘Yeah. There is.’

‘What is it?’

‘You.’ He frowned. ‘Me. Everything.’

‘You prefer we talk first?’

‘I prefer you stop treating me like a punter.’

‘You’re not a punter.’

‘What am I, then?’

The question surprised even Winter. It cut through all the clutter in his head. It was perfectly phrased.

Maddox knew it, too. She withdrew slightly, appeared to have trouble framing an answer.

‘Listen.’ Winter looked at her. ‘We don’t need any of this stuff, we really don’t.’

‘What stuff?’

‘You coming across like that. I haven’t a clue what made you do it but to tell you the truth you shouldn’t have bothered. I’ve been around a bit, my love. And I know when people are faking.’

‘You don’t fancy me?’

‘I think you’re gorgeous.’

‘Is it this?’ She touched the fading bruise that pouched her left eye.

‘Not at all. It’s this.’ He nodded at the kaftan. ‘And that little pantomime when I was down in the street there.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘You’ve got the wrong bloke, Maddox. If I want to go to the theatre I’ll buy a ticket.’

‘You think I’m acting?’

‘Yeah. And I think you probably never stop. In my game you get to recognise the symptoms. You know the surest sign of all?’

‘Tell me.’

‘People get themselves into trouble, often physical trouble. They play a part, push it too far, and end up in the shit. Sometimes it’s overconfidence. Sometimes it’s crap judgement. Sometimes they’re pissed out of their heads. Sometimes they’re just being a prat. Either
way, they end up in a situation they can’t control.’ He nodded at her face. ‘Know what I mean?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I do.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I like you, too. A lot.’

The simplicity of the confession stopped Winter in his tracks. This was the Maddox he’d met last night, the woman who’d taken care of him, the black sheep banished by her mad aristo family, the slim-hipped vision who screwed fat cats for a great deal of money and spent her spare time with the ghost of a burned-out French poet. He loved all that, loved it. Worse still, he wanted to believe it was true.

Maddox had folded her long legs beneath her. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Winter’s face.

‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ she said at last.

‘OK.’ Winter fingered the hem of the kaftan, trying to work out how to put it. Finally he looked up at her. ‘You want to keep me, don’t you? You want to hang on to me?’