Happy Days (7 page)

‘You think the man lies?’

‘I think he’s not the kind of guy that really fits. He’s awesome in all kinds of ways – really bright, really cluey – but he hates all the corporate stuff and doesn’t bother to hide it. Even the
News
must have noticed in the end.’

Suttle had never heard of these people. Even married, both he and Lizzie tended to hang on to their own sets of friends. Paul Winter, oddly enough, was one of the few people they shared.

Suttle scraped a dice of onion and garlic into the frying pan. It was all too easy to imagine the conversation with Megan. Newsroom gossip. Stories that hadn’t worked. Who was screwing who. Lately, he’d begun to sense that Lizzie couldn’t wait to get back.

‘You miss it, don’t you?’

‘I do.’

‘You miss it badly?’

‘Badly enough to bore Megan shitless about how lucky she is.’

‘Maybe she feels the same about you.’

‘I doubt it. She and Andy aren’t getting on. You could see it. The guy fascinates me. I’ve never met anyone … I dunno … so
shameless
. He’s impatience on legs. Whatever he’s thinking, it’s all over his face. She obviously bores him stiff. Pity, really. She can be really sweet.’

‘So what’s he up to now?’

‘No idea. I did ask but he’s always full of bullshit. I think he views unemployment as a career opportunity. The big novel? Some new twist on social media? The trillion-dollar website? Either way, he’s lucky Megan’s still earning. Which is probably why he’s hanging in there.’

‘Nice.’

‘Exactly. Are you getting the picture here, Mr Chef?’

She stepped across with the bottle and gave him a kiss. Suttle abandoned the stove and held her for a long moment. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he’d always loved the snubness of her
nose and the way she cropped her hair. In certain lights, like now, she looked about twelve.

‘Friends?’ he murmured.

‘Always.’

Over supper he told her about J-J. He described breaking the news about his dad’s death and showed her the mime he’d used to try and soften the blow. When he told her that J-J and Ulyana were due down tomorrow to try and pick up the pieces, she offered to do whatever she could to help. Suttle wasn’t quite sure how this might work, but he loved the generosity of the gesture and the fact that she obviously cared. She’d only met Faraday on a couple of occasions, but both times she’d come to the same conclusion. Now, halfway through another bottle they’d found, she said it again.

‘He needed mothering. He needed a bit of a hug.’

‘Yeah? You think so?’

‘Definitely. The guy was all over the place. He needed looking after.’

‘You’re right.’ Suttle emptied his glass. ‘Maybe it’s a man thing.’

Lizzie said nothing. Then she pushed her plate away, got to her feet, extended a hand and nodded towards the stairs.

‘My pleasure, Mr Chef.’

That same night Winter dreams about Brett West. He remembers the morning Bazza drove him across to Southampton Airport. He pictures the little charter jet waiting for them on the apron in front of the terminal building. Mackenzie has already dispatched Westie to Malaga with instructions to keep a low profile and has now laid hands on a professional hit man from south London called Tommy Peters to tidy the situation up. As Bazza’s enforcer, Westie has shown a real talent for hurting people but he’s also overstepped the mark once too often. Mackenzie has no patience for that kind of liability. Hence the presence of Tommy Peters.

A hired Mercedes van is waiting for them at Malaga Airport. Winter has yet to figure out exactly what’s to come. They drive into the city and then take the coast road north. Beyond the town of Rincon de la Victoria the van hooks a left and climbs through the suburbs. High in the foothills overlooking the sea, Winter is dropped outside a half-finished bar in a housing development still under construction. It’s late afternoon but still very hot. There’s no one around. Bazza gives him a holdall. Inside, in high-denomination notes, is
£
25,000. The money belongs to Westie, Bazza says. Make sure he counts it.

Winter remembers the cloud of dust as the van takes Bazza and Tommy Peters and couple of other guys away. He walks into the bar. The place smells of cement dust. Nothing’s finished. He takes a seat at a table and waits. After a while an old man appears and gives him a drink. Later still Westie turns up. He’s brought his girlfriend. She’s German, very pretty, nice to talk to. Her name is Renata. She’s some kind of artist. Westie is still counting the notes when Tommy Peters reappears. He’s carrying a gun. He shoots Westie twice, both times in the head.

In the dream Winter is inches away from Westie when Peters pulls the trigger. He can feel the warm spray of blood. It’s all over his face, his hands, his shirt, everywhere. The girl is on her knees, trying to help Westie. She looks up. She sees the gun levelled at her own head. She’s pleading for her life. Winter can taste his own shock, his own fear, the terrible realisation that he doesn’t belong here, that he should never have been any part of this slaughter.

He turns to Peters, tells him to put the gun down, tells him to spare the girl. Peters gives him a look, eases him out of the line of fire, moistens his lips, half-closes one eye. Winter looks at the girl. He wants to say sorry. He wants to be forgiven. But he knows that will never be possible. Of Bazza, needless to say, there is no sign.

Winter woke with a tiny gasp. After a moment or two, totally lost, he realised he was trembling. Then he recognised the shape of his bedroom window in the throw of light from the promenade below and dimly made out the silhouette of the stuffed leopard at the foot of the bed. Bathed in sweat, still trembling, he reached out for the comfort of Misty. He wanted to wake her. He wanted to tell her about the dream. But there was no one there.

PORTSMOUTH: SATURDAY, 15 AUGUST 2009

For the first time for months Suttle slept in. Normally, to keep the peace, he was first up for the baby. This morning, a Saturday, it was Lizzie who slipped out of bed at the first tiny cries from the baby’s room next door. Making his way downstairs, hours later, he found Lizzie dribbling feed into the goldfish bowl while Grace, strapped in her rocker in front of the TV, tried to make sense of the morning cartoons.

‘You’re a star,’ he mumbled, giving her a kiss.

‘Your boss phoned.’

‘Parsons?’

‘Yeah. She wants you to give her a ring.’ She looked at him a moment, then gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Enjoy.’

Parsons was at home. She was about to descend on Sainsbury’s but first she needed an update on Operation
Castor
. She was having lunch with the Head of CID and it seemed Det Chief Supt Willard wanted to be absolutely sure.

‘About what?’

‘Us. And Faraday.’

‘I’m not with you, boss.’ Suttle was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘The guy committed suicide.’

‘We’re sure about that?’

‘Positive. I talked to D/I Hayder last night.’

‘No evidence of …’ she paused ‘… negligence?’

‘By who?’

‘Us.’

Suttle was looking at Lizzie. Good journalists listen to everything, and she was one of the best. He bent to the phone again.

‘We gave him support, boss. I understand we offered him a job. What else could we do?’

‘Nothing. You’re right. I’ll tell Mr Willard. Anything else I should know?’

‘Yeah, boss. Winter.’

‘What about him?’

‘We had a long chat last night.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘What time are you seeing Mr Willard?’

It was never Suttle’s intention to invite himself to lunch, but when the return call came fifteen minutes later it seemed that Willard had insisted. He and Parsons had been planning to meet at a gastropub out in the country, but under the circumstances Parsons had cancelled the booking and would be getting something together in the privacy of her own home. She anticipated a lengthy discussion, and the last thing she needed was an audience.

Willard was a big man, physically imposing. He’d won a force-wide reputation as a detective’s detective and commanded respect as well as a degree of fear. Suttle had never seen him out of a suit.

‘Winter?’ he said.

They were sitting around a highly polished table in Parsons’ dining room. There were only single-course settings, and Suttle was wondering why she bothered with a silver candelabrum at midday. At least she hadn’t lit the candles.

Suttle explained about the meet he’d had last night. Winter had tired of life with Bazza Mackenzie. He was definitely looking for a way out, and if the price of the ticket was stitching up his boss then so be it.

‘And you believe him?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Mackenzie’s started to frighten him.’

Willard wanted to know how. Suttle explained the political campaign he was trying to mount. The man’s ambition knew no limits. In Winter’s view, Mackenzie had lost touch with reality. He was in denial about the gathering storm that threatened to swamp his various businesses, and in the shape of Leo Kinder he’d found the playmate of his dreams. As ever, the world was his for the taking. Next stop Westminster.

The news that Mackenzie might be facing ruin drew a smile of grim satisfaction from Willard. He’d always believed that one day Mackenzie would be the cause of his own undoing. Maybe that time had come.

‘I’m still not clear about Winter,’ he said. ‘Why so sudden? Why now?’

Suttle had been anticipating exactly this question. He should of course tell Willard about the possibility of a European Arrest Warrant but knew that this would be the end for Winter. In Willard’s book the ex-D/C was public enemy number two. Turning your back on the Job, betraying everything that it represented, was the cardinal sin. Nothing would please him more than to know that Winter might spend the rest of his life in some khazi of a foreign jail.

‘I think it’s been building, sir. I think it’s a long-term thing. Mackenzie’s an animal, and even Winter’s realised nothing’s going to change.’

‘He knew that all along.’

‘Maybe not in the way he knows it now.’

‘So what’s happened?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Would he tell you?’

‘He might.’

Willard nodded. One of the reasons he was a hot favourite for ACPO rank was his talent for seeing through every variety of bullshit. This skill had served him well as a sharp-end
detective, and Suttle was uncomfortably aware that the conversation was about to become deeply personal.

Parsons appeared with a basket full of rolls, hot from the oven. Willard reached for one without taking his eyes off Suttle.

‘Winter’s a godfather to your daughter. Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Was that wise? Given the fact that you’re a serving officer?’

‘Probably not, sir.’

‘
Probably not
? You’re a policeman. Winter’s taking money off a known criminal. He works for the man. He probably does a good job. He probably makes him feel safe. And you treat him as a
mate
? Some kind of
family friend
?’

Suttle said nothing. At this rate he’d start next week by looking for a new job.

‘They go back a long way, Geoff. And if Jimmy wasn’t still in touch I dare say we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

It was Parsons. She’d been listening from the adjoining kitchen. Now she stepped back into the room with a bowl of salad and a bottle of wine. She gave the wine to Willard and fetched some glasses from the sideboard.

Suttle wondered whether to volunteer his services with the corkscrew. He liked her use of Christian names and was grateful for Parsons’ intervention. He’d known for months that hoisting Winter on board for Grace’s christening hadn’t been a great career move, but Lizzie had been keen, and in the end Suttle hoped no one would notice. Wrong.

‘Do you feel compromised?’ Willard had put the bottle to one side.

‘No, sir.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘Because I know where the line is.’

‘What line?’

‘Between the job and everything else in my life.’

‘And you think that’s the same for Winter?’

‘Yes, sir. I do.’

‘Why?’

‘Because when the chips are down, like now, he treats me as a friend. And that, sir, might be an opportunity for us.’

Willard eyeballed Suttle a moment longer then granted him a tiny nod of approval. Nice answer. Clever. Neat. Almost plausible.

‘Winter’s a rat,’ Willard said softly. ‘We shouldn’t be dealing with rats.’

‘But Mackenzie’s the same, sir. Only nastier.’

‘And you think that justifies cosying up to Winter?’

‘That’s your word, sir. All we’ve done is have a conversation.’

‘And you trust him?’

‘Of course not.’

‘But you think we should have him on board?’

‘I think we should be putting Mackenzie away.’

‘And you think Winter can do that?’

‘I think he can make it possible, yes.’

Parsons was ferrying dishes in from the kitchen. With the pasta went a big dish of chilli con carne. While Suttle explained Winter’s plan to bait the campaign-funding trap with the drug debt owed by Martin Skelley, Willard wrestled the cork from the bottle.

‘That means we’ll be talking months,’ he said. ‘Next spring, probably.’

‘That’s right, sir. But that’s generally the way with u/c.’

Willard nodded. An effective undercover operation often took upwards of a year to prepare. In this case Winter would, if anything, be shortening the time frame, chiefly because he was already at the heart of Mackenzie’s life. No need to insert someone new, give them a legend, let them groom the major parties, lulling them into a false sense of security before the trap was finally sprung. In Suttle’s view Winter’s offer was a major windfall, a great fat plum that had just dropped into their laps.

Parsons agreed. ‘Jimmy’s right, Geoff. There’s no one else I can think of that Winter would trust. Maybe we owe him a vote of thanks.’

Willard ignored the invitation. He helped himself to a plate of food then looked up at Suttle.

‘The man’s a nightmare.’