Happy Days (8 page)

‘Who, sir?’

‘Winter. Assuming we do something, assuming we think it might play to our advantage, we’ll need to manage the bastard, tie him hand and foot, make him understand he’s not a free agent any more. These things are tricky. We could get burned. Badly.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘So who’d do it? Who’d take the responsibility? Who’d rein him in?’

There was a long silence, broken, in the end, by Parsons. She smiled across the table, loops of pasta hanging from her fork.

‘That would have to be you, Jimmy, wouldn’t it?’

Winter spent the day at Misty’s place out at Hayling Island. He brought her two bottles of Chablis, a bunch of pink roses and news he assumed would put a big smile on her face.

‘Bazza’s not interested in selling up, Mist. Fuck knows why, but he seems to think you need this lot.’

They were sitting beside the pool. The sun was hot after a couple of early showers, and Misty was lying topless on her B&Q recliner. A couple of savage Bacardi and Cokes had settled her down after a late lunch, and droplets of sweat were beading in the coat of factor 20 that masked her face.

She reached out for his hand. Earlier she’d suggested he join her in the pool, but there was no way Winter could squeeze into Bazza’s cast-off Hawaiian surf shorts. Now, nursing a Stella, he sat beside the patio table in the shadow of a big striped umbrella. He’d shed his jacket and from time to time he mopped his face with a corner of Misty’s towel.

‘I’ve been thinking …’ she said.

‘About what?’

‘Us.’ She gave his hand a little squeeze, turning her head sideways to bring him into view. ‘What if you came to live with me?’

‘Here?’

‘Yes, pet.’

‘You mean …’ Winter frowned ‘… full time?’

‘Yes. Does that sound so terrible? Someone to look after you? All those little needs of yours?’

She struggled onto one elbow and slipped her sunglasses to the end of her nose. For a woman in her late forties, she still had a wonderful body. Winter had given up pretending not to look at her breasts.

‘I’d bore you shitless,’ he said. ‘Give it a month and you’d chuck me out.’

‘Never. You’re good for me. You make me laugh.’

‘Yeah? And what else?’

Winter had known Misty Gallagher far too long to take anything at face value. However disarming the smile, she always had another agenda, and one of the reasons they’d been good together was the fact that she knew she could never bullshit him.

Misty admitted times were getting tough.

‘How?’

‘Money-wise.’ She waved a manicured hand towards the house. ‘Baz has always been good about paying the bills but lately he’s started making excuses. It’s getting tricky, pet. I’m not sure what a girl’s supposed to do.’

‘You think he wants you out? You think I’m wrong about that?’

‘No. I think you’re right. I think he’s skint. If he could help me out I’m sure he would. To be honest, it’s a bit of an embarrassment.’

She explained about a recent bathroom refurb. She’d got a
guy in to rip out the old bathroom suite and install a power shower and a new Jacuzzi. He’d done a brilliant job and she was really pleased, but she was looking at a bill for nearly 5K and hadn’t got a clue how to pay it.

‘Baz?’

‘He says he can’t. He knows the bloke well. Suggests I bung him a couple of freebies.’

‘And?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Try me.’

‘The guy’s an animal. We did it once. Never again.’

‘Charge him five grand.’

‘That’s exactly what I did.’

‘And?’

‘He just laughed.’ She reached for her drink and pulled a face. ‘He wants it regularly, preferably Wednesday evenings. That’s the night his wife goes to Pilates. The problem with builders is they never know when to stop. Believe me, pet, there wouldn’t be anything left by Thursday.’

Winter smiled. He didn’t know whether to believe this little tale, but something told him it was probably true. Misty’s appetite for sex had been the real come-on for Bazza. In the world of Pompey gossip nothing spoke louder than having Misty Gallagher as your regular shag.

‘So I’d be the muscle, right? Keeping your creditors in line?’

‘Absolutely. And you’d have squatter’s rights.’

‘But I’ve got those already, Mist.’

‘Yeah, but more often.’

‘You’d wear me out.’

‘That’s what I told the builder, but he never listened. An hour and a half? Do you think that’s reasonable? No chatty little breaks? Nothing to drink? Not a word between us? It was weird, pet. God knows what he’s like at home.’

‘He’s probably a puppy. Or maybe his missus has gone off it.’

‘That’s what I said. That was the other bit. He went totally mental. Told me I couldn’t hold a candle to the way she did it. Just wasn’t in the same league.’

‘So why bother with you?’

‘Thanks, pet.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know.’ She shot him a smile. ‘Next time I bollock you for not trying, just say “Builder.” Five minutes? Tops? Then off to sleep? Bring it on, pet. Move in whenever you like.’

Winter laughed, knowing she was probably serious. Since Bazza had abandoned territorial rights Mist had definitely wanted something closer and more permanent, but Winter found this prospect a bit of a let-down after the scary excitement of nailing Bazza’s mistress when his boss was busy elsewhere. He could rely on Misty for a lot of things, including the best sex he’d ever had, but he wasn’t at all sure about cosy nights around the flame-effect gas fire.

‘So why me? You could have any bloke you fancied.’

‘Of course I could, but it’s not the same, is it? You can’t build a whole fucking life around some bloke who happens to take your eye.’

‘Then stay single.’

‘You’re not supposed to say that, pet. You’re supposed to find life impossible without me.’

‘I do. Often.’

‘Sure. That’s when you want a shag. And that’s when you lift the phone. So what else am I in your life, Paul?’

Winter stiffened. This was getting serious. She very rarely used his Christian name, and when she did it usually spelled trouble.

‘Are we talking the L-word?’ he enquired.

‘Yeah. Lulu. That’s me. A fucking lulu. Off my head. Putting up with all this.’

‘All what?’

‘This.’ Her head jerked back towards the house. ‘Trying to
keep it all together, trying to make things half-decent for us, trying to kid myself I’m not getting shagged witless by some half-arsed cheating bastard monkey I happen to owe money to.’

Shocked, Winter realised she was crying. Proud as ever, she’d tried to turn her current situation into some kind of joke, but it hadn’t worked. Life was getting to her, big time. Especially now.

He abandoned his chair and squatted beside the recliner. Misty tried to push him off. She was angry as well as upset. She hated being seen like this. Crying was for a different kind of woman.

‘Fuck off, Paul. You don’t need me. Just go.’

‘Who says?’

‘You don’t have to say. It’s fucking obvious. I thought you were different once, but you’re not, are you? You’re just like the rest of them. You take what you want and come back when the mood suits you. At least Baz said he loved me.’

‘When?’ Winter was astonished.

‘A couple of years ago.’ She dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. ‘He was pissed, if you want the truth, completely out of his head, but at least he said it.’

‘And me?’

‘What about you?’

‘You think I don’t love you?’

‘I don’t know. You never say.’ She spared him a tiny enquiring glance. ‘Well …?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘And is it such a tough fucking thing to say?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘It is.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ Winter frowned, hunting for the explanation, wanting somehow to make things better for her.

She was looking at him. She’d taken her glasses off. She sniffed a couple of times.

‘Is it me? Am I that evil?’

‘No, Mist, you’re not.’

‘What is it then? Aren’t we right together? Or am I so stupid I’ve missed the fucking obvious?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like this is some kind of game?’

‘No, Mist, it’s not a game.’

‘Then what is it? Just tell me the truth for once. Go on, Paul. Do us both a favour. Be brave.’

Winter didn’t know what to say. His knees were killing him. He shifted his weight, propping his back against the recliner. Across the harbour he could see the tiny dot that was the Bargemaster’s House. He gazed at it for a long moment, thinking of Faraday. He too had messed up in relationship after relationship. Maybe it was a man thing. Or maybe it was something that came with the Job. The latter thought took him back to Jimmy Suttle. The coming months were going to be extremely challenging. One wrong move and he could end up like Westie. The last thing he needed was to fall out with Mist.

Winter closed his eyes. The sun was warm on his face. He let his head fall on Misty’s shoulder, then reached for her hand.

‘Well?’ She was still waiting for an answer.

‘You know it already, Mist.’

‘Know what?’

‘That I can’t live without you.’

PORTSMOUTH: MONDAY, 24 AUGUST 2009

D/I Hayder wrapped up Operation
Castor
in less than a week. Analysis of Faraday’s recent correspondence, emails and phone calls yielded a handful of contacts which Hayder regarded as useful. Emails to a couple of birding magazines had cancelled both subscriptions. A letter to his solicitor had asked for a meeting which hadn’t, in the end, taken place. A couple of days later, in a two-minute call to a local jobbing gardener, Faraday had apparently had second thoughts about a minor landscaping project. When Hayder traced the guy and paid him a visit, he said he hadn’t been surprised. He’d helped Faraday out on a number of occasions but lately he seemed to have lost interest. He hadn’t done any weeding for weeks. Neither had his plantings been watered. More telling still, evidence on Faraday’s PC of repeated visits to his secure page on the HSBC website indicated a sudden interest in the state of his bank balance.

To Suttle, briefed by Hayder, this kind of activity formed a pattern. These were, he suggested to Parsons, the actions of a man tidying up his life prior to ending it. The tox results from the post-mortem were yet to come through, but the pathologist had already established respiratory failure as the proximate cause of death. Faraday, a couple of days before Suttle had found his body, had necked a great deal of red wine, swallowed two packs of codeine, drifted into unconsciousness and choked on his own vomit.

Parsons wanted to know about Gabrielle.

‘Have you talked to her?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Gaza. She took the child back and seems to be living with the little girl’s aunt. She was a bit reluctant to go into details, but I think she must be working with some NGO. Maybe Médicins Sans Frontières, I’m not sure.’

‘And Faraday? You told her what happened?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

‘She said she couldn’t believe it. She was really upset. I couldn’t get anything else out of her after that.’

‘Do you think Faraday had been in touch? Recently?’

‘She says not.’

‘So when did they last talk?’

‘Months ago. She said he used to phone a bit. In the end I think he just gave up.’

‘Poor man.’

‘Yeah …’ Suttle nodded. ‘Too right.’

Parsons asked about the funeral. It was important, she said, that as many of Faraday’s former colleagues as possible attend. She’d be sending round a reminder to that effect and knew that headquarters would dispatch a sizeable contingent. Given the sadness surrounding Faraday’s departure, she said, the least we all owe him is a decent farewell.

Suttle nodded but in his heart he was already blaming himself and maybe a couple of others for not keeping in closer touch with his ex-boss. The more he put the intel picture together, the more obvious it became that Faraday had ended his days without any support whatsoever. This was probably his own choice because he’d never been one for socialising, but both Suttle and Lizzie agreed that company of the right kind might have made a difference. Depression, like a spring tide, could
simply sweep you away. A shame, therefore, that no one had been around to drag him back to safety.

Parsons was obviously having similar thoughts.

‘Was there
anyone
he was close to?’

‘Not that I know of. As far as I can tell, he just turned his back and shut himself away.’

‘Meaning none of us knew.’

‘Meaning none of us bothered to find out.’

Parsons shook her head, disagreeing. You could only help people if they wanted to be helped. That was the way it worked. You lifted the phone or pinged off an email, and that way you could get people to your door. It was unreasonable, she said, to expect busy people to be psychic.

The word busy brought the flicker of a smile to Suttle’s face. This was Parsons preparing herself an alibi. She’d probably sleep better at night if depressives like Joe Faraday had the good sense to behave like rational human beings.

Suttle gave her an update on arrangements for the funeral. Faraday’s remains had been released by the Coroner. J-J had been down all week. He and Ulyana had spent their first night at the Bargemaster’s House, but sleeping with the ghost of his dead father had spooked J-J badly and by the morning, according to Ulyana, he was a wreck. She’d phoned Suttle, asking about a cheap B & B, and it had been Lizzie who’d insisted they come and stay at their place. Suttle had been nervous about the arrangement at first, but J-J had bonded at once with Grace, who couldn’t take her eyes off his hands, and by the end of the week they’d all become best mates. J-J had even asked Suttle to read a poem at his dad’s funeral.

‘Poem?’

‘Don’t ask me where it comes from, boss. I think it’s something by Tennyson.’

‘Does it have a name?’

‘Yeah. Guess.’

Parsons gazed at him for a long moment, thinking back
to the night she’d taken Suttle’s call and driven out to the Bargemaster’s House.