Blood And Honey (29 page)

‘Pelly still paid it. Made no difference. Then a couple of months later the new boat turns up. This one’s bigger than the Tidemaster so Pelly’s up for a few more quid. End of story.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Neither did I.’

‘And?’

‘We asked about. The key is the date, right? That’s the crippler. If we can come up with a date when the Tidemaster actually went, then we’ve got the beginnings of some kind of timeline. One old guy we found was a fisherman, used to do it commercially, now just potters about. Got a little boat of his own; keeps the freezer full. We met him lunchtime, in the pub down there, The Pilot. The old guy says Pelly got shot of the Tidemaster around the end of September, beginning of October.’

‘How does he know?’

‘It was his wife’s birthday. There’s a fancy caff on the other side of the harbour, Baywatch on the Beach, and they put a special spread on for her at lunchtime. Coming round on the harbour road the old guy had a good view of Pelly’s mooring. It was a Friday, and he remembers the Tidemaster wasn’t there.’

‘Maybe Pelly was out fishing.’

‘Not on Fridays apparently. He never took the boat out on Fridays. Over the weekend the old guy kept his eyes open. No Tidemaster. Soon after that he bumped into Pelly at Tesco up in Ryde; asked him about the boat.’

‘And?’ Faraday, at last, was smiling.

‘Pelly said he’d sold it on. Someone he’d met in France had come over with a trailer and carted it off. Seemed happy as Larry about it.’

‘Did Pelly give a date for all this?’

‘No. Just referred to last week. The old guy thought that was odd. He lives and breathes the harbour; he’s down there every day. Nothing gets by him. Hauling a boat that size out is a bit of a performance. If it had happened, he says he’d have seen it.’

‘Excellent. You statemented this old guy?’

‘Going back tomorrow, boss. He said he wanted a bit of time to think about it. Shame. Another pint and there wouldn’t have been a problem.’

‘And the date? The wife’s birthday?’

‘October third.’

Faraday was already drawing a timeline. Around March Pelly expresses interest in one of the new Cheetah 7.9s. In June he comes up with the five-hundred-pound deposit. By August he’s struggling to find £23,000 to start the build and Cheetah assign the hull to another customer when Pelly’s cheque doesn’t
appear. At the end of September Chris Unwin makes final visits to Midhurst, Southsea and the Boniface Nursing Home to see his ancient Nan. After that he disappears. On 3 October an eagle-eyed local notices that Pelly’s Tidemaster has also slipped its moorings. Three days later Cheetah Marine clears Pelly’s cheque for £23,333.

Faraday asked to see the Tidemaster ad again. £9,000.

‘Was Pelly’s boat the same age as this one?’

‘I’ve no idea, boss. The old guy in the pub said it was pretty knackered.’

‘No more than nine grand, then?’

‘Probably not.’

Faraday gazed at his pad. The timeline was perfect but the sums didn’t begin to add up. The door opened again. It was Tracy Barber. She shut the door with the back of her foot and consulted a slip of paper.

‘I’ve had Marie Grossman on the phone. She thinks she may be able to lay her hands on a photo of Unwin.’

‘How come?’ Faraday was still staring at the pad.

‘There’s a Pompey pub called the Speke Arms. They have local bands in on Sunday nights, plus the odd out-of-town muso when they can afford it.’ She glanced down at Bev Yates. ‘Ainsley Lister?’

‘R and B.’ Yates nodded his approval. ‘Nottingham boy. Brilliant on a good night.’

‘Well, the last time Ainsley was down, Marie and Chris Unwin happened to be in there as well. Apparently Unwin’s a big fan. He got hammered that night and insisted on having his photo taken with the star. Marie remembers it like yesterday; didn’t know where to hide herself. Said the guy with the camera was a local, another big fan of Ainsley’s; might well still have the shots.’

Faraday was still trying to place the pub. Bev Yates came to the rescue.

‘The Speke’s in Fratton. Half of Paul Winter’s dodgy snouts drink in there. Maybe you should give him a ring.’

Winter, nursing yet another headache, was contemplating an early exit from the squad office at Kingston Crescent when Faraday came through on his mobile. He hadn’t seen Faraday for the best part of a year, not since
Tumbril
had hit the buffers. He’d done the DI a favour then, trying to help him out of the enveloping disaster, but it was obvious at once that Faraday hadn’t called for a cosy chat.

‘You know the Speke?’

‘In Fratton? Of course I do.’

‘We need a bit of help. Bev Yates says you’re the man.’

Faraday outlined the message from Marie Grossman. It seemed that Winter had contacts who practically lived in the place. One of them might remember an R and B singer called Ainsley Lister and have the photies to prove it. Winter settled back in his chair, rubbing his eyes, trying to concentrate. A couple of calls would sort the information Faraday needed but first he wanted to know more.

‘What’s this about, then?’

Faraday said nothing for a moment, then he explained briefly about the headless body and about the missing Chris Unwin. Nothing was certain in this world but the two ends of this particular inquiry might well meet in the middle.

Winter was alert now. Even the numbing thump of the headache seemed, for a moment, to ease.

‘When was this, then?’

‘What?’

‘This body of yours. When was it recovered?’

‘Ten days ago.’

‘You’ve done the PM?’

‘Of course.’

‘So how long had the guy been dead?’

‘Hard to say. Could be three months, could be longer. The timeline we’re looking at says early October if it’s Unwin but we’ve nothing to stand it up.’

‘Fine.’ Winter shut his eyes a moment, willing himself to concentrate as the pain sluiced through his head. ‘I’ll make some calls; give you a bell later.’

Snapping the mobile shut, he got to his feet and walked unsteadily towards the door. One of the management assistants, watching him reach for the handle, wondered whether he’d been reckless enough to risk a heavy session at lunchtime. Then, without warning, Winter stumbled and fell. The management assistant was by him within seconds. His eyes were closed and his face felt clammy to the touch. A thin trickle of blood was threading down his temple from the impact with the door frame.

‘What’s going on?’

Cathy Lamb had appeared at her office door. Seeing Winter, she hurried over. On her knees beside him, she cradled his head for a moment, and then told the management assistant to help her turn him into the recovery position. Winter weighed a ton. By the time he was lying on his side, Cathy had found a tissue.

‘You OK, Paul?’ She dabbed at the blood.

‘Fine.’ Winter looked up at her a moment, and then began to vomit.

Cathy signalled for more tissues. Winter was still throwing up.

‘Easy, Paul. Go easy.’ She held his head again while
Winter emptied his stomach onto her skirt. His embarrassment was acute. He was struggling to get to his feet.

‘I’m fine,’ he kept saying. ‘Just fine.’

Cathy calmed him down. A couple of passing PCs from Traffic saw what was happening and stepped in to lend a hand. They eased Winter away from the door and propped him upright against the wall. Winter couldn’t take his eyes off Cathy Lamb’s skirt.

‘Shit,’ he kept saying. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No need. Just take it easy.’

‘Yeah?’ Winter was looking around now, alarmed. ‘Where’s Jimmy?’

‘Haven’t a clue, Paul. You need a doctor?’

‘No.’ He shook his head and then wiped his mouth with the proffered tissue. ‘I’m OK now. Seriously. Just …’ He shut his eyes and then squeezed hard. Red lights flared out of the darkness, bolts of raw pain. When he opened his eyes, Suttle was standing between Cathy Lamb and one of the blokes from Traffic. Draped over them, a curtain of bubbles. Winter reached up for Suttle. He was sweating again. He’d never felt worse in his life.

‘Do us a favour, Jimmy?’

Suttle caught his hand and helped him to his feet. Cathy Lamb, after a moment’s indecision, told him to stay put and then headed for the washrooms at the end of the corridor. On Suttle’s arm, Winter made it back to his desk. One of the Traffic PCs had managed to find a first-aid box. Winter looked up at Jimmy Suttle.

‘There’s been a development,’ he mumbled. ‘You free tonight?’

Suttle drove Winter home. By the time they got to Bedhampton it was dark. Suttle walked him slowly up
the garden path towards the squat bulk of the bungalow. Winter was breathing hard, like a man halfway up a mountain, and seemed to have difficulty remembering where he’d left his house keys.

‘Trouser pocket,’ he concluded.

Suttle recovered the keys. The fourth one fitted the front door. Inside the narrow hall he fumbled for the light switch. The house smelled damp and empty. This is where old people live, Suttle told himself.

Winter wanted a drink. Suttle headed for the kitchen, leaving Winter in his favourite chair beside the gas fire.

‘Scotch.’ Winter called him back and pointed at a glass-fronted cabinet on the other side of the room. ‘There’s ice in the fridge. You have one too but go easy, eh?’

‘Why’s that?’

‘You’re driving me.’ Winter managed a grin. ‘Chauffeur job.’

Suttle hesitated by the door, not at all sure where his real responsibilities lay. Everything told him that Winter should be in hospital, or – at the very least – in bed. Yet the conversation in the car had already convinced him that nothing short of handcuffs and a three-man escort would get the man anywhere near a doctor. He’d always been headstrong, even reckless, yet the longer Suttle worked with Winter the more he recognised how shrewd the man could be. He took risks, in fact he thrived on them, but they were finely calibrated and he seemed to have an instinct, an inner compass, that rarely let him down. Show Winter the toughest knot in the world and he’d somehow tease it out.

‘You really think this bloke on the island is our
man? The guy with no head?’ Suttle was back from the kitchen.

Winter stared up at the teacup, ignoring the question.

‘What’s that you’ve got?’

‘Scotch. I couldn’t find a glass.’

‘Top cupboard on the left. I’m not drinking Scotch out of that.’

Suttle beat a retreat. Seconds later he was back. He gave the glass to Winter and watched him swallow the first mouthful. Almost at once he began to look better. There was colour in his face, even the beginnings of a smile.

‘The bloke in the sea …’ Suttle tried again.

‘Has to be.’ Winter’s head was tipped against the back of the chair. ‘The timings fit, the guy’s the right age, and it was obviously a professional hit. Who else goes to the trouble of taking the head off? Eh?’ He turned his head sideways, eyeing Suttle. ‘Another thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Wishart has access to boats. In fact he makes the fucking things. So tell me this. If you’ve got a body and nowhere to dump it, what do you do? Easy. You stuff it in a boat, drive into the middle of nowhere, and chuck it overboard.’

‘So who is this guy?’

‘God knows. They’re saying Unwin, whoever Unwin is. He’s a runner, definitely.’

‘You want me to go down to the Speke? Talk to some of your guys?’

‘No.’

‘
No?
I thought we were after a photo?’

‘We are, son. Or we will be.’ Winter’s eyes strayed
to the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘There’s a restaurant in Petersfield. Mon something. You know it?’

‘Mon Plaisir. What about it?’

‘We need to be there by seven.’ Winter glanced down at his empty glass. ‘Just time for the other half.’

By the time they got to Petersfield Winter seemed to have recovered. Mon Plaisir was a much-reviewed restaurant that occupied the bottom of a half-timbered house in a corner of the town’s main square. According to Suttle, it specialised in French provincial cooking and three-figure bills. He’d been out with several local girls who were dying for a trophy meal there and one day, if he could raise a mortgage, he might give it a try himself.

He found a parking space with a perfect view of the restaurant and switched off the engine. So far Winter hadn’t said a word. He sat in the passenger seat, slowly working his way through a packet of Werther’s Originals, scanning the square for signs of life. At this time of night on a Thursday the middle of Petersfield was dead.

‘Now what?’

‘We wait.’

They sat in the half darkness for nearly an hour. Once, Suttle tried to start a conversation about Winter’s state of health, suggesting a check-up might be a wise move, but Winter ignored him. Around 19.40 it began to get seriously cold and Suttle switched on the engine and turned up the heat but Winter wasn’t having it. The engine off again, Winter peered across at the restaurant.

‘He’s late,’ he muttered.

‘Who is?’

‘Wishart.’

‘
Wishart?
We’re waiting for Wishart?’

Again, Winter said nothing. Then a cold hand gave Suttle a pat on his thigh.

‘You’re a good lad,’ Winter grunted.

Gone eight o’clock, Wishart finally arrived. The Jaguar coasted past them, a gleam of metal under the sodium lights. Wishart was behind the wheel, even bulkier in a heavy black coat. Beside him was another figure, slighter. Wishart found a parking space near the restaurant and got out, his breath clouding on the chill night air. The passenger door opened.

‘Fucking Maddox.’ Suttle threw Winter a look. ‘You knew about this?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Set it up?’

‘No.’

‘But I thought he’d given her a slapping?’

‘So did I.’

‘So how come?’

Winter shook his head, refusing to go further. Wishart had taken Maddox by the arm. They paused briefly by the parking meter while he checked that they didn’t need a ticket, then they kissed, a long kiss, his gloved hands cupping her battered face. Mon Plaisir lay across the road. Minutes later, without their coats, they were sitting in the window, bent towards each other in the flicker of candlelight across the elaborate table setting.