Happy Days (11 page)

It was true. Years back, Parsons and Willard had cooked up something similar, dismissing Winter from the force in the knowledge that Mackenzie would probably pick him up. On that occasion his handler had let him down badly, and in the end Winter had decided to stay with Mackenzie for real. Now, though, that decision wasn’t looking so clever.

Willard said that the choice of handler would be his and his alone.

‘Fine.’ Winter got to his feet and reached for his jacket. Willard stared up at him.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Home.’ He glanced at his watch, then nodded at Suttle. ‘I’m happy to work with Jimmy. No offence, sir, but anyone else and I’m afraid I’m out.’

It was nearly seven by the time Suttle made it back home. Faced with Winter’s ultimatum, Willard had been unyielding. Once Winter had gone, he told Suttle to stay in touch. In his view there were pressing reasons why Winter had made the approach in the first place. Sooner or later the devious little scrote would be back because he probably had no other option. When Suttle enquired who else he had in mind as a handler, Willard said it was irrelevant. In any negotiation you had to be sure who was bossing the thing. Letting Winter have his way from the start was a short cut to disaster. There had to be rules. There had to be a protocol. And Winter had to understand who was in charge.

Shortly afterwards, with Parsons in tow, Willard left. Suttle circled the house a couple of times, tidying up, wondering whether he’d ever set foot in the place again, then locked up and made his way out to his car. There was rain in the air again, and he paused at the kerbside, glancing back towards the Bargemaster’s House. J-J was already making arrangements to put it on the market. In a month or two, thought Suttle, there’d be no trace left of Faraday.

Arriving home, Suttle recognised the red Mazda sports car parked behind Lizzie’s Clio and his heart fell. Gill.

She was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, nursing a glass of what looked like vodka and Coke. She was dressed in black, a formal suit with a single red rose pinned to one lapel. Her face was puffy, and Suttle knew at once she’d been crying. J-J was
at the stove, preparing something with garlic and tomatoes, and every now and then Gill sneaked a look at him, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

‘Lizzie’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘With the baby.’

Suttle nodded. He’d heard Grace crying the moment he’d opened the front door. He knew he ought to play the host with Gill but couldn’t think of anything to say. She watched him heading for the door, then called him back.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it,’ she said.

‘Make it where?’

‘To the funeral.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘No, but really …’

‘Really what?’

‘You know … I really wanted to be there … I really
should
have been there.’

‘Why?’

‘
Why?
Because I like to think we meant something to each other. Is that such a bad thing?’

‘Not at all. If you felt like that then you’re right. You should have come.’

Suttle had stepped back into the kitchen, manoeuvring himself so that J-J could lip-read the conversation.

‘I got as far as the crem,’ she said, ‘but I just couldn’t face it.’

‘Shame.’

‘You think that’s cowardly?’

‘I dunno.’

‘No, be honest. Just tell me. Was I right not to come?’

‘I’ve no idea, my love. I’m assuming he mattered to you or you wouldn’t have made the effort.’

‘Of course he mattered to me. Shit. How can you
say
that?’

Suttle shrugged. Spread his hands wide. No idea. Gill studied him a moment longer, then reached for the bottle beside the modest pile of recipe books. Suttle had been right. Stolly.

He watched her pour herself a generous slurp, wondering
where this conversation was heading. She left the top off the bottle and didn’t bother with more Coke.

‘I drove back down to Lee, if you must know. We used to walk there. By the sea. A lot. It felt right. Righter than the crem.’

Lee-on-the-Solent was a beachside township with views across the water to the Isle of Wight. Apartments on the seafront were much favoured by wealthy retired couples who spent their days watching the big ships outward bound from Southampton. The sunsets were said to be fantastic, but Faraday had always hated the place.

‘You live that way?’

‘Yeah. I have done for years. Joe used to stay over. We could have made it work. I know we could.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ She was frowning now. ‘You know something? You’re just like him. You don’t trust people. You don’t believe them. I can hear it in your voice. It must be something to do with the Job.’

‘Joe was out of the Job.’

‘I know. I know. And he hated it. Absolutely hated it. Didn’t have the first clue what to do with himself …’ She sniffed, gazing at the glass. ‘My poor lamb.’

‘You miss him.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Of course I miss him. We were so good together, so fucking good. I knew it from the moment I met him. From that very first time. It was here. That party for Gracie. I expect you remember.’

‘I do.’

‘But he’s shy, isn’t he? Like a child? Maybe I should be gentler. Maybe I frighten him. Next time, eh?’

She raised her glass in a toast, swaying gently on the stool, and Suttle began to wonder how many she’d had. Her use of the present tense was baffling. Suttle had always believed that
journalists made most of their stuff up, but this was seriously deranged.

She wanted to get more off her chest. How they’d been hatching plans to go away together. How she’d been badgering him to sell the Bargemaster’s House and move across to Lee. The sleepless nights she’d passed since the news broke about his death. So many memories, she said. And the promise of a life together once they’d had a proper chance to sort everything out.

After a while Suttle made his excuses and went upstairs. Lizzie was in the room she called the nursery, reading Grace a story. Suttle stooped low, giving them both a kiss, and volunteered to take over.

‘Is she still down there?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Pissed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll phone for a taxi. Put you out of your misery.’

Lizzie clattered downstairs and Suttle settled himself beside the bed. He was a couple of pages from the end of the story when he heard the
parp-parp
of the waiting cab in the street, followed by an emotional farewell on the doorstep.

Back downstairs, minutes later, he found Ulyana giving J-J a hand at the stove. Of Lizzie there was no sign.

Ulyana had a question from J-J. How long had his dad been seeing the woman with the red lipstick?

Suttle held up five fingers.

‘Weeks?’ Ulyana translated J-J’s next question.

‘Days. Your dad couldn’t stand her. Big mistake.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Totally.’

‘Absolutely certain?’

‘Believe me.’

J-J nodded, gave the frying pan a poke, then signed something to Ulyana.

Suttle wanted to know what he was saying.

‘You want it for real? Word for word?’

‘Please.’

‘He said thank fuck for that.’ She shot J-J a glance. ‘I think he was getting worried.’

PORTSMOUTH: MONDAY, 21 SEPTEMBER 2009

A month later, while he was still shaving, Winter took a call. It was Carol Legge, a spirited social worker who worked on the city’s Child Protection Team. Over the years Winter had leaned on her for a number of favours. and she’d always obliged him with a stern sense of motherly indulgence. More lately he’d asked for a very big favour indeed, and – after a couple of days’ thought – she said she’d do her best. After a week she had come up with a name and an address. Winter got the form from the Post Office and used the photo booth in the corner to acquire four head shots. The girl behind the counter had warned him not to smile for the camera because the agency didn’t accept smiles any more. Winter held her gaze for a moment then told her it wouldn’t be a problem. Smiling was the last thing he felt like doing.

Now Winter asked Carol how she was getting on.

‘It’s ready, pet,’ she said. ‘And he’d like the money in notes.’

Karl Sparrow lived in a carefully converted council house on a neat estate at the top of the island. Winter had never met him, but Carol Legge had explained everything he needed to know. Karl’s nickname, she’d said, was Birdy. Half a lifetime ago he’d taken a cheapo summer break at a holiday camp in north Devon. The second night, out of their heads on cider and various other substances, he and his mates had decided on a midnight swim. Birdy dived into the wrong end of the pool,
hit the bottom and surfaced with a strange numbness below his neck. His mates managed to get him out, and Birdy was still putting the numbness down to Strongbow when the paramedics arrived. Only a day and a half later, in the neurological unit at the Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital, did a consultant confirm that he’d broken his neck. Barring miracles, Birdy would be paralysed for the rest of his life.

Winter rang the doorbell, wondering how you’d cope with an injury like that. After a while he heard footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a youngish black woman in a white smock. The nose stud was a fetching shade of lime green and she was peeling off a pair of surgical gloves.

‘You the guy Carol sent round?’ Pompey accent.

‘Yeah.’

‘He’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished, OK? Kitchen’s at the back. Help yourself.’

Winter went through to the kitchen and made himself a mug of tea. A glass door offered access to a tiny paved area at the rear of the property. At this time of day it was in shadow but later, Winter thought, it would turn into a bit of a sun trap. He was eyeing the row of tomato plants beside the fence when the girl returned.

‘He’s ready now.’ She nodded back towards the hall. ‘First on the left.’

Winter could smell the disinfectant on her clothes. He stepped out of the kitchen and followed her directions. Karl Sparrow was lying in bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows. He was a big man, Winter’s age, with a shaved head and tattoos on both arms. The room, tiled, was bare except for a big motorised wheelchair, a mobile hoist parked tidily at the entrance to the adjacent bathroom and an ancient TV perched on a chest of drawers at the foot of the bed. The disinfectant smell was stronger, laced with something more earthy.

Sparrow’s hand lay on the whiteness of the sheet.

Winter gave it a pat. ‘All right, Karl?’

Sparrow studied him a moment. ‘No,’ he said, ‘since you’re asking.’

‘What’s up then?’

‘Pressure sore.’ He nodded at the spotless duvet. ‘Takes months to clear up. Mona’s a fucking saint. In her shoes I’d put me down.’

Winter gazed at him, wondering how far to take the conversation. Mercifully he had very little experience of conditions like this. All he really knew about Birdy was Carol Legge’s undying admiration for what she called his pluck. As the medics had warned all those years ago, the guy was paralysed from the neck down, no feeling, no control, nothing. He survived, she said, on a rota of call-in nurses who changed his nappies, sorted out his catheter and urine bottle, and fed him a diet of chicken soup, wholegrain bread and salad from the garden, plus liberal helpings of local gossip. This, it seemed, was all Birdy needed. The rest of his life happened in his head.

‘You got the money?’

‘Yeah. You want to count it?’

‘Very funny. Do it on the bed, yeah?’

Winter had the notes in a Jiffy bag in his jacket pocket. He made a space for himself on the duvet and began to lay them out. Carol Legge had told him
£
3,000 in twenties, and Winter was surprised how long it took to count.

‘OK?’ he said at last.

‘That far pile. Count it again.’

Winter did so. Five hundred quid. On the button.

‘Where do you want it?’

‘Top drawer. Under the telly.’

‘It’ll be safe in there?’

‘Sure. I’ve got decent neighbours. Bloke next door’ll do anything for me. Sorts me out money-wise. Keeps an eye on things.’

‘And he knows about this?’

‘You’re joking.’

‘So how do you explain three grand?’

‘Fuck knows. Rich relative? Insurance settlement? Either way he won’t care, won’t say a word. All he has to do is give matey a ring and tell him it’s on.’

‘What’s on?’

‘The new plasma.’ He nodded at the far wall. ‘Sky Sports? Twenty-four-hour news? A million channels? Bring it on, eh?’

It dawned on Winter that he might just have opened an important door in Birdy’s life. From now on, whenever he fancied it, he could watch the outside world tearing itself to pieces. This knowledge was oddly comforting. He gathered up the notes and stuffed them back in the Jiffy bag. Carol Legge, as ever, had been punctilious about the small print of this deal, but Winter had to be sure.

‘No previous, am I right?’

‘Nothing.’ He couldn’t take his eyes off the Jiffy bag. ‘Luck of the fucking devil.’

‘And you’ve never been abroad?’

‘Never. Always fancied it. Never got round to it.’

‘And from here on in?’

‘No fucking chance. An hour in the back garden is a major production, believe me.’

‘OK.’ Winter circled the bed. ‘Top drawer?’

‘Yeah. The brown envelope’s for you, mate. Check out some of those DVDs while you’re at it. Magic, eh?’

Winter opened the drawer. The plain brown envelope was addressed to Karl Sparrow, and Winter could feel the outline of the passport inside.

‘What do you think?’

‘Thanks. I’m grateful.’

‘I meant the DVDs.’

‘Ah.’

Winter quickly sorted through the DVDs. There were dozens of them, all classics, mostly black and white.
Casablanca. The African Queen. The Cruel Sea
. He’d seen
Gone with the Wind
three times himself. Clark Gable had always done it for his late wife.

‘Brilliant, eh?’ Birdy was watching him. ‘Matey next door’s gonna set the whole lot up for me – plasma, recorder, player, the lot. I tells Mona it’s gonna be like travelling without all that airport hassle. She thinks I’m bonkers, that girl.’