One Under (33 page)

He stared out of the window, weighing his options. Finally, recognising the size of the hole that yawned before him, he shrugged.

‘OK, boss,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what happened.’

Faraday listened, inscrutable, as Winter went through it. They’d put a plastic sack over his head, tied him up, stuck him in a van, driven him around for half the night, parked up by the railway line, given him a poke from time to time to keep themselves amused, stripped the clothes off him, taken photos. Then they’d dumped him on top of Portsdown Hill and left him to get on with it. Two o’clock in the morning. Bollock naked. Thank God he’d had a mate he could count on.

Faraday stirred.

‘That’s abduction,’ he said softly. ‘Abducting a police officer is a hanging offence. It’s not just you, Paul, it’s everyone else in the job. You let them do it because you obviously had no choice but afterwards you did fuck all about it. What kind of message does that send?’

Winter nodded. It was the reaction he’d expected, straight out of the manual they kept in the Professional Standards Department. Next, Faraday would doubtless ask for a formal statement. Winter could sense the interminable meetings that lay down the road. They’d end in a disciplinary hearing and the coldest of goodbyes. A big fat pension would have been nice, he thought. And maybe a pat on the back for all those scalps he’d taken.

‘I couldn’t bear it, boss,’ he said simply.

‘Couldn’t bear what?’

‘The wind-ups. The little digs. Blokes laughing behind your back.’

‘In the job, you mean?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And that’s why you didn’t blow the whistle?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Even afterwards? Next day?’

‘Next day was too late. By next day I had too many questions to answer. Better to let it all blow over.’

‘But it wouldn’t, would it? Mackenzie’s got photos. He’s got your mobile. He’s got our numbers. And that means he’s got you. And you know why? Because he knows you. He knows the kind of bloke you are. He knows how bloody difficult you are, how you play it long, how you piss everyone else off, how you go your own sweet way and end up with a bunch of enemies who should be watching your back.’ He frowned. ‘Tell me something. Mackenzie has a big pile of chips he needs to cash in. He’ll have been in touch by now. Bound to have been.’

‘Last night.’

‘And he had a proposition, didn’t he? Something he wanted you to do?’

‘It wasn’t that specific.’

‘So what happened?’

‘We got pissed.’

‘Bonding session?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And how did you feel this morning? Once you realised he’d got you by the balls?’

‘No idea, boss. I’ll tell you when my head starts working again.’

A smile ghosted across Faraday’s face.

‘Serves you fucking right.’ He stooped to retrieve an envelope from his briefcase. ‘Mr Willard gave me this.’

Winter looked at the photo. Bastards, he thought.

‘He’s saying Saturday afternoon. In the Water Margin.’

‘He’s right. Mackenzie belled me, wanted a meet. That’s when I pissed him off.’ He told Faraday what had happened. When he described leaving the restaurant with the tiger prawns, Faraday shook his head.

‘Hardly subtle,’ he said.

‘Bazza isn’t into subtle.’ Winter was staring out of the window. ‘Unless you shout, he doesn’t hear a fucking thing.’

Faraday was toying with his pencil. He had some other questions, this time about the Gunwharf apartment, and he made it plain that it was in Winter’s interests to answer them.

‘How much did you sell the bungalow for?’

‘Two seven five.’

‘Any outstanding mortgage?’

‘Twenty.’

‘Savings?’

‘Seventeen, give or take.’

‘And the apartment?’

‘Five fifty.’

‘You’d already paid for the operation?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Sixty.’

‘So where did the difference come from? Given that you’d shelled out sixty grand for the operation?’

For the first time, Winter knew he had to draw a line. The inference behind Faraday’s questions was all too obvious - that Mackenzie or some other scumbag had tided Winter over on the Gunwharf apartment - but Winter resented sharing every last financial detail with his bosses. Even with his record, there came a point when they had to trust him. Otherwise, he might as well spare them the hassle and jack it in himself.

‘It’s legit, boss. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘You can prove it?’

‘Glad to, if it comes to it.’

‘Here? Now?’

‘I’m afraid not. Put it down to pride. Say I’m being difficult. It won’t surprise them.’

‘Who’s them?’

‘Dunno, boss.’ Winter nodded at the surveillance photo. ‘Whoever set that up, I suppose.’

There was a long silence. It was like waiting for some kind of death sentence. Winter sat back in his chair, wondering whether it was too late to take up origami. At last, Faraday appeared to have made a decision.

‘I’m taking you off
Coppice
, at least for the time being, until we’ve got Mackenzie well and truly eliminated.’ He looked up. ‘We’ll talk again once I’ve made some decisions. Concentrate on
Tartan
, will you?’

‘The Givens job?’

‘Yes.’ Faraday offered a thin smile. ‘I’m sure there’s lots to do.’

Winter returned to his office, chastened. He’d rolled over for Faraday far too easily but he blamed that on the Bacardi. What was worse was the fact that he hadn’t a clue what might happen next. Surrendering the initiative, he thought grimly, is becoming a habit.

Babs was about to go into conference with a couple of DCs in the Incident Room. Winter waited until she’d gone, then slid the HSBC envelope from his drawer. He extracted the May statement and studied it carefully to make sure he’d got it completely right. Satisfied, he reached for the phone and dialled a mobile number.

‘Jake? That you? It’s Paul. You’re at work, yeah? Only I need a word.’

Jake Tarrant said he was busy. A traffic jam of bodies and a pile of paperwork he wouldn’t believe.

‘Sure, son. I’ll be fifteen minutes. Put the kettle on.’

 

The mortuary at St Mary’s lay in a gloomy cul-de-sac on the edges of the hospital site. The dead end offered turning space for undertakers’ vans and the refuse lorries that called for clinical waste, and security at the cheerless Victorian building had recently been strengthened after a break-in by an alcoholic in search of embalming spirit. Winter pressed the entryphone buzzer, sheltering from a thin rain.

Jake Tarrant was wearing clinical greys, a theatre cap with a tie at the back and a pair of blood-spattered wellington boots. He threw the door open, stepped over a coil of hosepipe, and ushered Winter in. The DC manoeuvred round a plastic-shrouded corpse on a trolley and waited for Tarrant to shut the main door. Beyond the laden trolley, inside the post-mortem room, he could see a bike parked beneath the window. It looked new.

‘That yours?’ He was following Tarrant into the tiny office.

Tarrant glanced over his shoulder and nodded.

‘It’s brilliant,’ he said. ‘Eighteen gears. Titanium frame. All the bells and whistles. Scares me to death just looking at it.’

‘Fast, is it?’

‘Expensive. Leave it anywhere in this city and you’re talking two locks. At least. Tea?’

Winter made himself comfortable in the office. A huge Pompey poster on the wall celebrated last season’s 4-1 epic against the Scummers and the side of a big grey filing cabinet had been decorated with an FHM calendar. Miss July, a hefty blonde, left little to the imagination.

‘I thought you’d get sick of bodies.’ Winter nodded at the calendar. ‘Your line of work.’

‘Cool, isn’t she?’ Tarrant was busy trying to find the sugar. ‘You should take a look at April. She’s black. See the arse on her.’

Winter resisted the temptation. Beneath the window the scabby carpet tiles were covered with what looked like building plans. A ruler, pens, and a pad of yellow Post-its lay beside them.

‘What’s this then?’

‘New mortuary, over at QA. The architects have come up with the shell of the building and we have to decide what we want inside.’

‘You moving then?’ This was news to Winter.

‘Next year. Then you’ll get your Home Office PMs back from Winchester. State of the art, mate. Regional showpiece. Computerised locator system. Designer tables. A hundred and eighty fridge spaces. Can’t wait.’

‘And what about this khazi?’ Winter gestured round.

‘Storage. Bit like now. All the routine PMs are done up at QA. They’re pushed for fridge space at the moment, so we take the overspill. Full house at the moment. Too many people pegging it. Sugar?’

Winter helped himself. ‘Thanks for yesterday.’ He tipped his mug in salute. ‘You were brilliant, son.’

‘Pleasure, mate. Sorry about the missus.’

‘Not her fault. Christ, who needs some fat old bastard barging in at three in the morning?’

‘Exactly what she said. Funny that.’

Tarrant had driven him back to Gunwharf first thing Sunday morning. As Jake’d backed the Fiat off the hardstanding outside the house, Winter had noticed the hint of a face behind the net curtains in the window upstairs.

‘I’ve still got your Pompey top,’ he reminded Tarrant. ‘I’ll put it through the washing machine and drop it off.’

‘Whatever.’ Tarrant had a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Keep it if you want. Little souvenir.’

Winter ducked his head, took a gulp of tea. His headache had gone now and he helped himself to a couple of Jammie Dodgers.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a question for you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘This bloke Givens. I’ve been going through his bank statements. One of the things you do.’

‘And?’

‘He seems to have bunged you some money.’

‘Yeah, I think I mentioned it, didn’t I?’

‘Not a hundred and eighty-five grand you didn’t. What was that about?’

The question hung in the air between them, Winter suddenly aware of the whirr of the extractor fans along the corridor.

Tarrant was looking pained. ‘Is this official?’ he said. ‘Only I’m not quite sure what you’re after.’

‘I’m after a clue or two about the money, son. You’re a bright lad. We’re dealing with someone who’s gone missing. A hundred and eighty-five grand makes people like me nervous. Motive’s a nasty word but I’m sure you know what I mean.’

‘
Motive?
Shit. The bloke was a friend of ours.’

‘Was?’

‘Is. Was. Whatever. That’s why he made the loan in the first place.’

‘A hundred and eighty-five grand?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What for?’

‘We’re thinking of moving house. In fact Rach has got her eye on a property down in Southsea. Better schools for the kids. All that crap.’

Winter nodded, remembering the estate agents’ details in the back of the Fiat. Growing family. Hutch of a starter home. Makes sense.

‘Was this a long-term loan then? Repayment schedule? Regular standing order? Paperwork? All that?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we hadn’t got round to it. For starters, it was just a whack of money. Tell you the truth, Alan didn’t seem fussed about it.’

‘A hundred and eighty-five
grand
? And he just gives it away?’

‘It wasn’t a gift. We’d have done the paperwork in the end, done it kosher. We’d have had to.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘Dunno.’ Tarrant shrugged. ‘I suppose that’s up to you lot. Last time we talked, you thought someone had done him. In fact you even had a name. Karl Someone.’

‘Did you mention that to Rachel?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’d upset her. She really liked Alan.’

‘Liked?’

‘Likes. As far as she’s concerned, he’s just gone off for a while.’

‘She saw a lot of him? Givens?’

‘Yeah, she did. He was mad about photography, took loads of shots of the kids. You see the stuff up the staircase? That was his.’

‘So he was round a lot then?’

‘Depends what you mean by a lot. Couple of times a week maybe. You should talk to Rach. She felt really sorry for the guy. Thought he was a bit … you know … lonely. She’s big on waifs and strays, Rach. Cats, dogs, people, makes no difference. If it’s got a pulse, she’ll give it houseroom.’

‘And how did you feel?’

‘Me? I quite liked the bloke. We weren’t, you know, mates but he was all right. Inoffensive. Bit of a loner maybe. But that’s not a crime, is it?’

‘Not at all.’ Winter’s gaze had strayed back to the plans on the floor. ‘This money, Jake.’

‘Yeah?’

‘It could be a problem.’

‘How?’

‘Because it looks odd.’

‘You mean suspicious?’

‘Yes. This bloke Givens has gone missing. We’ve got a prime suspect, sure, and he’s been silly enough to do a copper so he’s going nowhere fast, but he swears blind he never laid a finger on the geezer.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’

‘Of course. But you know the way we work. I’m part of a squad here, and there are other people who believe our Mr Ewart when he says he never even met Givens. Which means they’re going to go looking further afield.’

‘Presuming Alan’s dead.’

‘Of course. But that’s an assumption nasty bastards like us have to make every working day. Think the worst and you’re seldom wrong.’ He paused, took another gulp of tea, then put the mug to one side. ‘Listen, son, I’m here to mark your card, right? All I’m saying is that it might be better to have that money ready to give back. All of it. Whatever happens. You with me?’

‘But who do we pay?’

‘Givens, if he turns up and if he wants it. Otherwise … ’ Winter shrugged. ‘He’s got a solicitor. I happen to have the details. You could do worse than drop him a line, offer the money back. Is that a problem?’