Blood And Honey (38 page)

‘Are these guys snouts of yours?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So why don’t you do it?’

Winter eyed him for a moment, then collapsed back against the pillows. This was the moment he’d been avoiding for the last couple of months. Suttle, like most detectives, rarely noticed the obvious. Until now.

Winter rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m not too well, if you want the truth.’

‘How’s that, then?’ Suttle looked startled.

Winter told him about the headaches, about the
moments when he thought he was going blind, about this morning.

‘You were sick again?’ Suttle was looking hard at the carpet. ‘Like the other day?’

‘Yeah. But worse.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? Shit …’ He shook his head. ‘Does Cathy know any of this?’

‘No.’

‘Then tell her. Else I will. You shouldn’t be working at all. You need a doctor.’

‘I’ve got one. And a consultant. And another bloody appointment, Monday morning as it happens. We should get rat-arsed Sunday, just in case.’

‘You’re kidding.’ Suttle reached for the mobile. ‘You think it’s that bad?’

‘Yeah.’

Suttle shook his head, sobered now, and scrolled through the list of numbers until Winter told him to stop. He scribbled down a couple of names; looked up. A car had come to a halt outside. Suttle got to his feet. Maddox was unloading shopping from the boot of Winter’s Subaru. Suttle watched her for a moment or two as she pushed in through the gate.

‘So where does she fit in to all this? Give us a clue.’

‘Wish I could, son.’

‘You mean that?’ Suttle glanced round.

‘’Fraid so.’ Winter shut his eyes, wincing with pain. ‘Toms I can handle. Wives, no problem. Maddox? You tell me.’

‘Nice, though, eh?’

‘Very.’ His hand clawed towards the strip of tablets on the duvet. ‘As if that helps.’

Maddox took the shopping straight through to the kitchen. Already, to Winter, the house felt different, warmer, shared. He listened to Suttle listing all the
clever ways Wishart had distanced himself from the hit. Payment would have been in cash. The car would have ended up on some industrial estate in Manchester or Newcastle, just another torched statistic. The hitman, with every incentive to keep his mouth shut, would have banked his money and gone to ground. Wishart’s fingerprints would be invisible.

‘So what’s the problem?’ Maddox was standing at the door. She’d evidently overheard everything.

‘We need to put him away. Evidence would be nice.’ Pursuing this thought was more than Winter could manage. He lay back again, shading his eyes against the noonday sun.

Suttle nodded. A mobile billing was a start, he said, but no jury would convict for taking regular phone calls.

‘You need to hear it from the man himself …
n’est-ce pas
?’

‘That would be favourite.’ Suttle grinned at her. ‘Think you can manage it?’

‘Yes.’ Maddox crossed the room and bent over Winter. ‘I think I can.’

Saturday, 28 February 2004

Faraday was on the phone to Willard when DS Dave Michaels appeared at his office door. DC Barber needed to speak to him. It sounded urgent. Faraday nodded, bringing the conversation with his boss to a close. Willard had just received a supplementary estimate for the analysis on Pelly’s hard disk, £3,500, a lot of money for a punt that might take the investigation nowhere. How was the rest of the case shaping up?

Faraday mentally reviewed the facts he knew he could rely on. Apart from Pelly’s cash windfalls and his subsequent purchase of the new boat, it amounted to very little. The charter of Sean Castle’s fishing boat might yet prove a breakthrough but Castle himself had no interest in making a formal statement. Computer analysis, on the other hand, was regularly proving to be an evidential gold mine. With luck, the techies might turn up something priceless.

Willard agreed.

‘We’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Ring me if anything develops.’

Michaels disappeared to transfer Barber’s call to Faraday’s extension. The DC was still at the nursing home.

‘How’s it going?’

‘Slowly. They’re sweet, some of these old dears, but you wouldn’t set your clock by them.’

‘Anything useful?’

‘Quite a lot about Pelly’s so-called missus. She’s a bit of a favourite here; the oldies adore her. Apparently she helps out all the time, really hands-on. And you pick up the feeling she doesn’t get out much, her choice as far as I can gather. This is her bit of England. She doesn’t seem that keen on the rest of it.’

‘Is that you saying that?’

‘No, there’s one old lady who really dotes on her, thinks she’s wasted running around after a bunch of geriatrics. She thinks Lajla pines a lot for home. Apparently she’s very close to her brother; gets regular letters.’

‘From Bosnia?’

‘Berlin. He’s a mechanic. Shares a flat with their father; just had a baby himself. He sends his kid sister piccies and Lajla shows them round.’

‘What about the relationship with Pelly?’

‘Father–daughter. That’s what this same old lady thinks. Actually she’s a youngster, spring chicken, barely seventy. Keeps her eyes open. She says Pelly’s got a regular girlfriend, big woman. Often spends the night. As far as Lajla’s concerned, Pelly seems to play the protector. Maybe brother–sister, not father–daughter.’

Faraday shut the office door with his foot. Gary Morgan had mentioned a local woman Pelly was seeing. Must be one and the same.

‘So why the call?’ Faraday asked.

Barber took her time explaining. She and Darren Webster had agreed that the key interviewee would be Mary Unwin, Chris Unwin’s treasured granny. They’d put her top of the list but getting anywhere near her had been a bitch. First, she’d alarmed the care staff by not eating her breakfast. Then she’d felt giddy and
retired from the shared lounge to take a nap. Finally, after lunch, there’d been yet another problem. She always watched
Neighbours
, never missed an episode, couldn’t possibly be disturbed. Finally, half an hour ago, Tracy Barber had practically forced her way into Mary’s tiny bedroom. She’d found her reading a copy of
Woman’s Weekly
. The TV, when she tried it, didn’t even work.

‘So who kept you out?’

‘Pelly. He’s been around all day. Nice enough with everyone else but in this case a pain in the arse.’

‘And Mary? When you talked to her?’

‘Genuinely off the planet. She must read
Woman’s Weekly
for the pictures. Her hearing’s not too great either, so you have to shout.’

Barber described the course of the interview. With every new conversation, she and Webster had tried to establish the pattern of visits from Chris Unwin. They had copies of his photo and most of the old dears recognised him. Yes, he used to drop in to see his nan. Have a cup of tea with her in the lounge, clown around a bit, make everyone laugh. And no, they hadn’t seen him recently, not since way before Christmas.

‘And Mary?’

‘She wasn’t sure. One minute she knew him, the next minute she didn’t. Then she wrecked the whole thing by asking whether he was still delivering the papers every morning. Turned out she’d got the wrong bloke, complete muddle.’

‘Useless then. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Well, no, it’s not. That’s why I called. This is going to sound freaky.’

Barber, it transpired, had been on the point of giving up the interview with Mary Unwin. Nothing she said
made any sense. She had a real problem with time: kept talking about the war as if it was yesterday, couldn’t remember what she’d had for lunch. Then, unprompted, she’d suddenly started talking in sign language.

‘
Sign?
’ Faraday blinked.

‘Yes. It was definitely sign language, the full repertoire: different shapes with her fingers, lots of gesturing, touching her elbow, shoulder, forehead, the lot. If I knew sign, I’m sure she would have been making perfect sense.’

‘No clues at all?’

‘Just one. She kept pulling her finger across her throat and then pressing her hands together, like she was praying. She must have done it half a dozen times. She was always looking over towards the door too, as if she half-expected someone to be outside.’ Barber hesitated. ‘You understand sign, sir. I remember you telling me. That son of yours, J-J …’

‘That’s right.’ Faraday glanced at his watch. ‘You want me to come over?’

‘Might be a good idea, though I’m thinking we ought to be putting a camera on this. Just for the record.’

Faraday nodded. Interviews with vulnerable witnesses were frequently recorded on videotape, a precaution to head off charges of harassment. He said he’d bring a camera over and then brought the conversation to an end. The longer Tracy Barber was on the team, the more she impressed him. Like the best detectives, she was constantly thinking ahead, arranging and rearranging the available bits of the jigsaw, hunting for the bigger picture.

Faraday found Ellie Unwin’s mobile number in the Policy Book. She was stuck in a traffic jam on the
outskirts of Eltham. Faraday explained Tracy Barber’s problem with Mary. Did Ellie’s mum often abandon conversation for sign?

Faraday could hear Ellie laughing.

‘Often,’ she said. ‘She does it when she gets excited. Or distressed. Chris is the one you should talk to. It’s always fascinated him.’

‘How come she learned it in the first place?’

‘She worked with deaf mutes when she was younger. Before I was born, actually. Gave it up when my dad came along.’

It was Winter who spotted Terry Alcott’s silver Land Cruiser in the car park at Kingston Crescent police station. Hauling in the ACC on a Saturday afternoon was a sign that
Plover
was getting itself a reputation. Winter, despite his thudding head, was impressed.

Alcott was occupying the chair behind the desk in Cathy Lamb’s office. He was an imposing man, physically big, and carried his authority with an easy wit. He lived out in the Meon Valley, a two-acre spread with river frontage, and had been down in Southsea since mid-morning. His eldest son played prop forward for the Hampshire Colts and Alcott rarely missed a game. Out of uniform, thought Winter, he looked almost human.

‘Afternoon.’ He gave Winter a nod and then glanced up at Suttle. ‘And you are … ?’

‘DC Suttle, sir.’

‘Good. Excellent. Find a seat. DI Lamb’s gone AWOL for a couple of minutes. Bring me up to speed.’

Winter summarised
Plover
’s progress as best he could, knowing that Alcott would already have been briefed by Cathy Lamb. That was the way officers of his eminence always operated, comparing one account
with another, looking for daylight through the dodgier joins.

Winter began with Singer but Alcott shook his head.

‘Singer can wait,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Mr Wishart.’

Winter nodded, concentrating on the last twenty-four hours. With the mobile billings he could evidence the link between Lakemfa and Wishart. He knew from his brief trawl through Wishart’s emails that the businessman had been in regular touch with the naval high command in Nigeria. And he had Maddox’s word that she was one of the sweeteners Wishart had tossed to Commander Lakemfa. Wishart, he said, surely had his eye on a big fat contract from the people in Lagos. Why else would he be spending all that money on someone he barely knew?

‘And you’re telling me it all went pear-shaped?’

‘Yes, sir. We haven’t got the details, not yet, but the story writes itself, doesn’t it? Either Lakemfa didn’t deliver or he got greedy and tried to put the squeeze on Wishart, or maybe he had other contractors in mind and started to play them off against each other. Everything we know about Wishart says this guy doesn’t understand the word no. Plus he hates being pissed around.’

‘So he puts out a contract on our Nigerian friend? Bit radical, isn’t it?’

‘Means and ends, sir. We’re probably talking millions if the contract worked out. What’s seven grand to some psycho in Paulsgrove?’

Alcott wasn’t convinced. He looked up at Suttle. There had to be more.

‘We’ve got a triangle here, haven’t we?’ he suggested.

‘I’m not with you, sir.’ Suttle was frowning.

‘The man Wishart. Our Nigerian gentleman. And then this Maddox woman. Am I right?’

‘Of course, sir, yes.’

‘And DI Lamb gives me the impression that Maddox may now be having a problem with her client. Mr Wishart wants more than his entitlement. Insists, in fact. Tricky situation, that. Most women I know would start looking for a little protection. No?’

Suttle glanced at Winter, only too conscious of where this conversation might lead. Alcott was extremely shrewd. Uncomfortably so.

Winter agreed that jealousy might have been a factor in Lakemfa’s death.

‘You say that with some conviction, DC Winter.’

‘I think it’s possible, yes.’

‘You know this woman?’

Winter didn’t answer. It was a Saturday. He felt extremely ill. The last thing he intended to offer Alcott was a glimpse of the bewilderment that passed for his private life.

‘I’ve formed an opinion, sir,’ he said woodenly.

‘Based on?’

‘Conversation.’

‘And?’

‘She’s extremely attractive. You’d have to be blind or mad not to want to …’ He shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.

‘And afterwards?’

Winter pretended not to understand, trying to fend off Alcott’s relentless probing. Afterwards was exactly the question he’d have put. Afterwards was the essence of Maddox. Afterwards, the way Winter saw it, had probably robbed Lakemfa of his life.

‘I haven’t been there myself, sir. If that’s what you’re asking.’

‘You haven’t?’

‘No.’

‘Why on earth not?’

The question, voiced with guileful innocence, hung in the air. The two men gazed at each other. Winter was angry now, and disinclined to take this conversation any further. Suttle, embarrassed, tried to help him out.

‘Maddox came up with a suggestion, sir. I don’t know what you’d think.’

‘Try me.’ Alcott was still looking at Winter.

‘She says she’s happy to string Wishart along. Wear a wire.’

‘You mean take him to bed? Record the proceedings?’