One Under (27 page)

The area car swept up the hill minutes later, blues but no siren. Crouching behind the bungalow’s fence, Winter could feel the damp softness of the earth between his toes. His naked bulk would be white against the black creosote. If the punters indoors wake up, he thought, I’m dead.

Round the corner, he heard a car door slam. Then footsteps. They’ll be talking to the caller, he thought. The householder will be waiting for them, slippers and dressing gown, still not quite believing what they’d seen across the road. Winter hugged himself, rocking on his heels, praying that they hadn’t clocked him leaving the box. Next thing for the area car was a cursory search. If they drove the other way, he still had a fighting chance. The car door again. Then the purr of the engine, slowly receding as they drove away. Brilliant.

Jake arrived a minute or so later, easing slowly up the hill, checking the numbers on the gates. As soon as his Fiat had come to a halt outside the bungalow, Winter was out of the front garden, limping across the thin strip of grass beside the pavement, reaching for the handle on the back door. He clambered in, then folded himself into the floor space between the seats.

‘Drive, son,’ he said.

‘Where to?’

‘Pompey.’

Jake twisted backwards in the seat. Winter was aware of his face above him. He wanted to know what was going on, why he’d been phoned by some policewoman at two in the morning, what Winter was doing bollock naked in someone else’s front garden. Winter shook his head. He wasn’t interested in a conversation.

‘Just go, son. Just do it.’

Jake shrugged. A three-point turn took him back down the road towards the parade of shops at the bottom. Still wedged between the seats, Winter had his eyes closed. The area guys would be driving a grid, widening the search area with every street turn. With luck, they’d have stopped a couple of times already, investigating a movement in the shadows, taking a torch to the darker corners. If they found him now - if they pulled the Fiat and did a stop search - their list of questions wouldn’t bear contemplation.

At the bottom of the road Jake swung the car left. From here it was less than a mile to the intersection that would take them south, back to the safety of the city. Winter shifted his bulk until he was lying on his back, staring up at the roof, counting the orange street lights as they rolled by. Finally, Jake was slowing again.

‘Are these the traffic lights?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Red?’

‘Green.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’ Winter began to struggle upright, bracing himself for the turn. ‘Brilliant, son. You’ve done brilliant.’

Jake was eyeing him in the rear-view mirror. Finally, he began to laugh.

‘Am I taking you home or what?’

‘Your place, I’m afraid. Bastards nicked everything. Keys. Mobile. The lot. We can sort it tomorrow.’

‘We?’

‘Yeah, son. You and me.’

Jake nodded, said nothing for a moment. Then he told Winter there was a blanket in the space behind the rear seat. They used it for picnics. Winter fumbled around in the back of the car. Beneath a litter of property details from various estate agents, he found the blanket. It was old and threadbare but big enough to drape around himself.

Jake was still watching him.

‘Just one question,’ he said at last.

‘Anything, son.’

‘What’s that terrible smell?’

 

Jake Tarrant lived in a brand new estate tucked into the north-east corner of the island. The cul-de-sac of starter homes looked like sentry boxes under the sodium street lamps. As the Fiat rolled to a stop on the tiny apron of hardstanding, Winter noticed a light in the window above the door.

‘Shit.’ Tarrant had seen it too.

‘The missus?’

‘Yeah.’

Tarrant helped Winter out of the back of the car, then retrieved his keys. Winter wrapped himself in the blanket and padded across the damp concrete. Tarrant was already at the front door, slipping the key into the lock.

‘In here,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

Winter found himself in a tiny hall. There was a line of kiddies’ boots beneath the hanging anoraks and a glimpse of a neat kitchen through the nearby open door. After the chill of the night air, it felt suddenly warm again.

‘Up there, mate.’ Tarrant was pointing at the narrow stairs. ‘Bathroom’s first right. I’ll sort you a towel in a moment.’

Winter crept up the stairs. There were photographs on the walls, all of them featuring two young kids. He paused beside the biggest. The kids must have been in the back garden. There was an inflatable pool and a miniature swing, and not much room for anything else. The smaller of the two kids, a girl, was beaming up at the camera while her brother emptied a bucketful of water over her head. The kids looked happy and guileless, a moment of innocence caught forever. Sweet, Winter thought, heading upward again.

The bathroom was the size of a cupboard with just enough length for a tub but the tiling looked spotless and there were half a dozen shower gel samplers neatly flanking the imitation gold taps. In a blue plastic box beneath the window lay an assortment of toys.

Winter mustered a grin in the mirror over the tiny sink. Half an hour ago he’d been looking at an awkward conversation with his bosses and a lifetime of wind-ups in the squad room. Now, all he had to worry about was a choice between Forest Mist and Hawaii Coconut. He abandoned the blanket and juggled with the shower controls until he couldn’t bear it any hotter. Underneath the falling water, he emptied a sampler of Coconut over his balding head and began to soap himself, working slowly downwards, letting the heat seep into every corner of his body. Minutes later, the bathroom full of steam, it occurred to him that he had company. Dimly, he could make out a figure by the door. Must be Jake.

‘Result or what, son?’ he murmured, turning his back.

 

Wrapped in a dressing gown he’d found behind the door, Winter made his way back downstairs. He could hear raised voices now, one of them Jake’s. It wasn’t my fault, he was saying. The phone goes, the bloke’s in trouble, he’s a mate of mine,
what else do you do
? He said it twice, as if for emphasis, then another voice, a woman’s, told him he was a fool. They had kids for Chrissakes, neighbours, responsibilities. What were people supposed to think? At this time in the morning?

Winter stood in the hall, wondering idly whether to intervene. The voices were coming from the living room. At length, his cough brought a woman to the door. She was wearing a scarlet towelling robe pulled tight around her and a pair of blue slippers. In the photo on Jake’s office desk, this wife of his had turned a succession of heads. Now her face was dark with anger.

‘Rachel … ?’ Winter extended a hand.

She looked at him a moment, then pushed past. Halfway up the stairs, she paused. ‘Show him your back,’ she said.

Mystified, Winter stepped into the living room. Jake was standing in front of the gas fire. He had a armful of bedding and there were a couple of pillows at his feet.

‘She saw you in the shower,’ he said. ‘Told me to look for myself.’

‘Look at what?’

‘Your back.’

There was a long mirror over the mantelpiece with yet more kiddie photos tucked into the frame. Winter unbelted the dressing gown and dropped it to waist level. Half turning, he caught sight of something scrawled across his back. Red felt tip. Obviously waterproof.

‘47?’ Tarrant was looking too.

Winter twisted his body and stared at himself in the mirror. He remembered his last moments in the van, those light touches across his back. They must have done it then, he thought. They must have addressed me, like a parcel, or left a clue or two in case I ever got curious. 47? For a second or two the message made no sense. Then, quite suddenly, he was back in the Water Margin, consulting the menu, hunting for something tasty to sustain him. Tiger prawns with ginger in oyster sauce. Number 47.

‘Fucking Bazza,’ he murmured, pulling the dressing gown tightly around him.

 

The locksmith was still at work when Faraday stepped out of the lift at Blake House. Winter’s call had found him at his desk in the Major Crimes Suite, drawing up a full review of progress on Operation
Coppice
. The new Head of CID wanted something in his locker in the event of further press enquiries first thing Monday morning, and Martin Barrie had passed on the request. Willard’s hunger for publicity, they both agreed, might be turned to
Coppice
’s advantage. If you wanted to flush out fresh leads, nothing beat the telly or a decent spread in a national tabloid.

Faraday paused in the hall outside Winter’s apartment. The old lock lay on a sheet of newspaper and the locksmith was having trouble making the new Chubb fit. The door was open, and Faraday could hear Winter on the phone. He sounded angry.

By the time Faraday made it into the living room, Winter had hung up. He was wearing a pair of black tracksuit bottoms that looked too small for him and a blue Pompey football top. He spared Faraday a nod, then turned to retrieve a notepad he’d left beside the phone. On the back of the football shirt, in white letters, a player’s name:
LuaLua
.

‘Can you believe this?’ Winter poked a finger at the pad. ‘Last night I lose my mobile. One of those things that happen. Bad karma. Too many Stellas. Whatever. This morning I bell Orange, tell them to put a block on it. And you know what? Some scrote’s only dialled the Melbourne speaking clock.’

‘How much?’

‘Three figures. Fucking unbelievable. From now on, I’m going top-up.’

‘You lost your keys as well?’ Faraday nodded back towards the front door.

‘Yeah.’ Winter tore a sheet from the notepad and crumpled it in his fist. ‘Had to spend the night at a mate’s place. Couldn’t even get back in.’

Faraday was still thinking about the mobile. ‘You had numbers stored on it?’

‘Of course.’

‘How many?’

‘Couple of dozen. Tops.’

‘Job numbers?’

‘Yeah. It’s what you do, isn’t it?’

‘But you’ve no idea who might have picked it up?’

‘None. I was across the way there … ’ He nodded towards the Gunwharf commercial centre. ‘Couple of pints, left my anorak on the chair while I went for a piss. The keys and the mobe were in one of the pockets. Plus my wallet, cards, the lot. Must have happened then.’

‘They took the anorak as well?’

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘Bit rash, wasn’t it? Leaving that lot lying around?’

‘Yeah, dimlo me.’ Winter shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many calls you have to make. Visa. Abbey National. All sorts. And on a
Sunday
?’

He offered Faraday coffee. Faraday shook his head. He wanted to know about Suttle. Had Winter been in touch with the hospital this morning?

‘An hour ago.’

‘And?’

‘Apparently he’s off the ventilator, breathing for himself again.’

‘But that’s good news, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘As long as they’re not winding me up.’

Faraday looked at him a moment, then shook his head.

‘You’re getting paranoid,’ he said. ‘Why would they do that?’

‘Because … ’ Winter threw the ball of notepaper at the waste basket and missed. ‘God knows. Listen, boss. I’ve got a meet fixed for this afternoon. I thought you might like to come along.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I need a motor. And because it would be handy to have a witness. This is a bloke who won’t want to talk to me. I can’t nick him because he hasn’t done anything wrong. But he knows what I know, or at least what I think I know, and I want you to be the one to hear it first.’ He stared at Faraday, still angry. ‘Does that make sense, boss? Or am I completely out of my fucking mind?’

 

The Druid’s Arms was a corner pub in the heart of Buckland, webbed by the surrounding terraced streets. On a cloudless summer Sunday, with the temperature nudging 25°C, the walled garden at the back was full of local families tucking into five-quid weekend specials. Parked across the road, his window down, Faraday could hear shrieks of laughter from the kids playing on the bouncy castle.

Winter had already been inside. Sammy Lewington, he said, was up the far end of the bar. Better still, he was well pissed.

‘In company?’

‘No.’ Winter had bought himself a copy of the
Sunday Telegraph
. ‘Sammy doesn’t do company.’

It was gone three by the time he emerged, a tall, thin figure in knock-off jeans and a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt. Faraday watched as he consulted his watch, rubbed his face, then set off uncertainly in the direction of Buckland. Winter was right. Sammy was out of it.

Faraday waited until he was well clear of the pub, then he started the Mondeo and went after him. Cars were double-parked the length of the street, leaving just enough room to get through. This will have to be quick, he told Winter.

‘No problem, boss.’

Sammy was weaving now, one arm out, fumbling with the zip of his fly and heading for the comfort of a nearby wall. Faraday drew up beside him, watching Winter as he stepped from the car, bodychecked past a builder’s van and confronted Sammy on the pavement. Seconds later, he was helping the man into the back of the Mondeo. Thirties? Forties? With his lank hair and bony face, Faraday couldn’t be sure.

‘Got a friend I want you to meet, Sammy,’ Winter was saying. ‘Think you can handle that?’

They drove out of the city and took the road that wound up to the top of Portsdown Hill. Faraday took his time, watching developments in the rear-view mirror. Winter was sitting beside Sammy, immensely pleased with himself, patting him on the arm from time to time, making nonsense small talk the way you might with a favourite uncle on trips out on Sunday afternoons. When it dawned on Sammy that all was not well, that he wanted the car to stop, that he wanted to get out and find his own way home, Winter told him everything would be sweet.