Borrowed Light (22 page)

Winter woke up in the early hours, groggy after an evening’s drinking. Misty had always favoured king-sized beds and it took
him several moments to realise that she wasn’t there. He lay on his side in the darkness, trying to pin down what had roused
him. Then, very faintly, he heard her voice. She was along the corridor somewhere, maybe in the bathroom, and she seemed to
be having some kind of conversation. She’s on the mobile, he thought vaguely, drifting off again.

It was daylight when he came to again. He reached out, feeling for Misty, finding a breast, half-remembering the earlier episode.
She stirred in her sleep, rolling away from him, and he looked at the long curve of her back for a while before slipping out
of bed and reaching for her dressing gown. He padded downstairs and put the kettle on. The breakfast bar was still littered
with empty cans, and smears of Bolognese sauce had congealed on the hillock of spaghetti Misty hadn’t bothered to finish.

He scraped the food into the waste bin and hunted for the tea bags. He was trying to work out where she kept her sweeteners
when he heard the purr of an engine outside. From the front room he could see the half-moon of gravel that served as a drive.
A small stocky figure was getting out of a dark blue Bentley. Mackenzie.

He let himself in. Winter was back in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure whether he still had rights to Misty Gallagher but the teapot,
he thought, could stretch to three cups.

Mackenzie didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see him.

‘Awright?’ He settled onto one of the bar stools and nodded up at the clock on the wall. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes, mush.
We’re out of here by nine.’

‘Why the rush, Baz?’

‘Tell you later.’ He nodded at the third cup. ‘I’d let the old slapper kip on for a while if I were you.’

Winter showered and dressed. They drove back towards the mainland. Winter had left Misty asleep in bed, disturbed by the realisation
that the early-morning conversation that had woken him up must have been with Mackenzie. That’s how he had known Winter was
in residence. But why drive across?

Mackenzie was lighting a small cheroot. He wanted to know about Tommy Peters.

Winter described yesterday’s exchange. In his view Peters was in deep financial shit and was calling in debts that didn’t
exist. The stuff about Brett West and the possibility of extradition proceedings was a clever move to put pressure on them
both. There didn’t seem to be a shred of evidence to back any of this stuff up, and 250K was a lot of money to give away for
no good reason.

‘You think he’s making it up?’ Mackenzie swerved to avoid a paper boy.

‘Yeah.’

‘A tenner says you’re wrong, mush.’

‘You believe him?’

‘I do.’

‘And you think we should bung him?’

‘Tommy fucking Peters?’ He shot Winter a look. ‘Do me a favour.’

Winter was lost. Mackenzie appeared to know more about all this than he’d previously let on. What a surprise.

‘What did he say about the toot?’

‘He was outraged. He thought I was taking the piss to begin with. When he realised you meant it he gave me an earful. I get
the impression he hasn’t got much time for drug dealing. He thinks we’re lowlife. Maybe he’s right.’

Mackenzie looked briefly pained. Winter wanted to know more about what was happening in Spain. Was Peters right about extradition?

‘Yeah, but that’s not the point. Down there these things are always more complicated than they look. The guys with the real
power are the politicians. When you get something like this, the police often can’t be arsed. They’ve got more crime on their
doorstep than they know how to handle. The last thing they need is all the hassle that goes with trying to nail down people
like us. It’s mañana, mush. Bury the file. Forget it.’

‘So how come it’s still live?’

‘Because there’ll be some greedy little spic politician who’s smelling money. Our money. Something like this, they can make
life tough for us. They can lean on the police. They can talk to the papers. They can stir up a shit storm, push for extradition,
exactly the way Peters says,
until the moment comes when we bung them a whack of moolah and they call the dogs off.’

‘That simple?’

‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen it happen a million times in the property game. Planning consents. Water supplies.
Access roads. Whatever. There’s always a price, and unless you pay it you get fuck all. This thing’s no different. But 250K’s
way over the top, and you know why? Because Tommy fucking Peters would skim a huge slice off the top.’

Winter nodded. In some ways, he thought, this rant made sense. No wonder Mackenzie wanted to become a politician.

‘So what do we do, Baz?’

‘We talk to Rikki. And we find out what kind of money they
really
want.’

Riquelme was the guy Winter had met last year, when he’d narrowly avoided arrest at Vigo airport. He lived out on the Galician
coast, importing industrial quantities of cocaine, and now seemed to act as some kind of agent for Mackenzie.

‘He knows these people?’

‘Rikki knows everyone.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense, Baz. The last time I looked, Malaga was on the other side of Spain.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Rikki has the connections. He knows the way these things work. I trust the guy with my life, mush.’

Winter nodded, saying nothing, all too aware they might have to. They were back on the mainland now, heading west on the motorway.
Was this the moment to talk about Lou Sadler? About Kaija Luik? About a black plastic bin liner that was, he hoped, still
in Misty’s loft? He thought not. Instead, he asked where they were going.

‘QA.’ Mackenzie indicated left for the exit road. ‘ We’ve got to pay a little visit.’

The Queen Alexandra hospital stood on the slopes of Portsdown Hill, with views across the city below. A recent makeover had
transformed the place, giving it the look of a huge multi-storey hotel.

Mackenzie drew up outside the main entrance and told Winter to find a parking space while he dived inside and sorted out some
flowers. When Winter wanted to know who they were visiting, Mackenzie grinned. Mate of yours, he said. Mate of mine too, once
upon a time.

Winter slipped behind the wheel and took the Bentley into the biggest of the parking lots. Minutes later he discovered Mackenzie
prowling among the pre-wrapped bouquets in the atrium. Finally he went for an extravagant bunch of lilies.

‘Here, mush.’ He thrust the flowers at Winter. ‘You do the honours.’

Ward D6 was up on the third floor. Winter stepped out of the lift and body-checked round a catering trolley, following Mackenzie,
who’d already found the nurses’ station and was bent over a pretty redhead finishing a conversation on the phone. He wanted
to know where to find Mr Leyman. Winter stared at him, still holding the flowers, suddenly aware of what lay in store.

Leyman was in a bay at the far end of the ward. His bed was beside the window, and the brightness of the light threw his huge
body into silhouette. Mackenzie, once again, was in the lead. He rounded the end of the bed, perched himself on the mattress
and gave Leyman a little pat.

‘Been in the wars, Col?’

Winter could see Leyman properly now. He was sitting upright in bed, the sheet tucked over the swell of his belly. His lower
face was swollen, purpled with bruising. His teeth were wired together, stretching his mouth into an idiot grin, and when
he tried to talk he could only manage a handful of noises.

‘Well, mush?’ Mackenzie glanced across at Winter, then nodded at the flowers. ‘You gonna hand those over or what?’

Winter couldn’t take his eyes off Leyman. I did that, he thought. I set him up. I took advantage. I squeezed out the pathetic
scraps of gossip that earned him this beating.

He laid the flowers carefully on the bed. Leyman’s hands plucked at the sheet. He was reading a magazine he must have picked
up on the ward.
What’s On In Hampshire.
Two years old.

‘For you, Col.’ Winter pushed the flowers towards him. ‘All the best.’

Leyman couldn’t take his eyes off Mackenzie. He was terrified. Winter could feel it, smell it. His eyes were huge in his head.
He tried to say something. A thin trickle of pinkish saliva was the best he could manage.

‘Give him a wipe, mush.’ Mackenzie had spotted a box of tissues on the bedside table. ‘Poor bastard.’

Winter didn’t move. He knew exactly what Mackenzie was up to. Leyman was a warning. This is what happens, Mackenzie was telling
him. This is where you’ll end up if things get out of hand.

A cleaner had paused beside the bed. She thought the flowers were lovely. She’d go and find a vase.

Leyman was still staring at Mackenzie. Finally he managed what sounded like a sentence. Mackenzie shook his head. He hadn’t
a clue what Leyman was on about. He wanted him to try again. Winter spared him the effort.

‘He’s saying thank you, Baz.’

‘Pleasure, mush.’ Another pat. ‘You mind if Paulie here takes a photo? Just you and me?’

Mackenzie had brought a little Nikon. He gave it to Winter, told him which buttons to press. Then he stood beside Leyman with
the flowers between them and mugged a smile for the camera. Leyman, Winter knew, wanted anything but this. He sat in bed,
his upper body sagging, the wreckage of his face frozen in the rictus grin. Beside him, on the little table, a single straw
in a glass of orange juice.

Mackenzie wanted the camera back. Winter handed it over. It was his turn to pose beside the bed. Another shot. More humiliation.

‘Ready, mush?’ Mackenzie was waiting.

Winter looked at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head, gave Leyman’s hand a squeeze and left. Only when he got to
the ground floor did he realise he still had the keys to the Bentley.

The news about Kaija Luik found Jimmy Suttle in the tiny office that served as
Gosling
’s intelligence cell. It was nearly midday. In an hour or so, with Parsons’ blessing, he’d be on the hovercraft back over
to Pompey. His partner Lizzie was planning an expedition to Winchester. It seemed she had something special in mind.

‘Here …’ Parsons closed the door behind her and handed Suttle a printed email.

Suttle scanned it quickly, knowing that easyJet were the last airline to respond to
Gosling
’s request for passenger lists. According to their sales department, no tickets had been issued in the name of Luik for flights
since last Saturday.

‘So where does that take us?’ Parsons had sat down.

‘It probably means no one called Kaija Luik has travelled to Estonia over the past week.’

Suttle went through the various other carriers
Gosling
had contacted. Nothing from the coach companies. Nothing from the ferries across the North Sea. Nothing from SAS, Air Estonia,
KLM and a host of other airlines. And now nothing from easyJet.

‘Maybe she’s using an assumed name,’ said Parsons.

‘I asked Sadler that. She said she couldn’t remember seeing her passport.’

‘Meaning Luik might not be her real name?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we’re stuffed, aren’t we? She could be anyone when it comes to passenger lists. Plus she might have taken a different
route. Or gone by train.’ Parsons shrugged. ‘It happens.’

‘Of course it does, boss. But it’s unlikely. And what’s more
important, it makes a pattern. Sadler’s fending us off. She’s keeping us at arm’s length.’

‘What about the photo she’s supposed to be sending?’

‘It still hasn’t arrived.’

‘So why? Why is she being so obstructive?’

‘Because she doesn’t want us to talk to the girl.’

‘And why would that be?’

‘I’ve no idea. We can tie the girl to Holman. We’re still assuming Holman has absconded with whatever he dug up. D/I Faraday
thinks he planned the whole thing with the girl in mind.’

‘I know. He told me.’

‘So maybe Sadler thinks that too.’

‘Or knows it.’

‘Giving her every incentive to throw us off the scent?’

‘Exactly.’ Parsons retrieved the email. ‘So where is she now? This Kaija Luik?’

Suttle shook his head, said he didn’t know. But that, in a sense, was secondary to a more important question. Just what had
happened to Johnny Holman?

‘This is a guy in a bit of a state. He’s got a raging thirst. He’s totally chaotic. He may have killed four people. He may
have burned his house down. A guy like that can’t hide for ever.’

‘Unless they’ve gone somewhere else.’

‘Abroad, you mean?’

‘Of course.’

Suttle nodded. It was a possibility. But the Border Agency had been sitting on his details since Wednesday. That still left
a three-day window during which he could have fled the UK, but he’d still have been taking a sizeable risk.

Parsons agreed, then consulted her watch. She was due to conference with the local D/I in Newport. For the time being, she
said, she was happy to keep Sadler under surveillance. Doubtless the time would come for a proper extended interview but the
more they had to throw at her the better.

Suttle needed a catch-up on the surveillance. How was it going?

‘Not much so far. It turns out the woman’s got a bit of a thing about horses. She went out to some kind of stables this morning,
treated herself to a ride.’

‘Has anyone checked this place out?’

‘Not yet. It’s down as an action. If you want the details, talk to Outside Enquiries.’

She threw him a brief smile and left the office. Suttle waited until the
clack-clack
of her heels had disappeared down the corridor, then
lifted the phone. He knew the relief skipper on Outside Enquiries from way back.

‘George? It’s Jimmy. Have you got a moment?’

Faraday returned to the Burns Unit at half past one, leaving Gabrielle at the guest house. Last night’s modest celebrations
had caught up with her and she wanted to snatch an extra hour or so in bed. Back at the unit, Leila was asleep. Faraday peered
in through the glass panel in the door. Riham was in the armchair beside the bed. She was wearing headphones but also appeared
to be dozing.