One Under (34 page)

Winter knew at once that it was. Tarrant was shaking his head.

‘No can do,’ he said. ‘The Southsea place I mentioned, Rach is dead set. We’re putting our place on the market this week. We’re going for a quick sale, one seven five. That’s a steal up our way.’

‘So why can’t you raise a mortgage? Like everyone else?’

‘Because I don’t earn enough. And no way is Rach going out to work. Not with two young kids.’

‘But you told me just now you could convert this money into a mortgage. Pay Givens back monthly. Kosher, you said.’

‘Yeah, but he’d see it our way, Mr W., you know what I mean? He’d cut us a bit of slack if things got sticky.’

‘So you’re telling me you can’t pay the money back? Not yet, anyway?’

‘That’s right.’

‘OK.’ Winter frowned. ‘But if we find a body, there’s going to be a problem. You know that, don’t you?’

‘How come?’

‘He’ll have an estate, probate, all that. Then you’re back in the hands of the solicitors and, believe me, they’ll come looking for the cheque.’

‘And what happens if Givens has just … ’ Tarrant shrugged ‘ … disappeared?’

‘Then he stays on the radar screen. He’s already on the Misper register. Officially, we maintain an interest. Circulate details. Keep looking. After a while, though, it gets to be difficult.’

‘So in the end … ?’

‘In the end, he just stays disappeared. The truth is that people go missing every day of the week. If I told you he’d become a priority, I’m lying.’

Tarrant nodded, saying nothing. At length he asked Winter whether he fancied another biscuit.

Winter shook his head. It was time to go. He stood up, lingering for a moment beside the desk. Then he laid a hand on Tarrant’s shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.

‘Fingers crossed then, eh? Let’s hope this mate of yours turns up in one piece. Either that, or he never turns up at all. Otherwise, my son, you’re fucked.’

 

Faraday stood on the upper deck of the Gosport ferry as it nosed across the ebbing chop of the harbour. He’d made contact hours earlier with Willard, catching him in the back of a taxi headed for Waterloo. Faraday badly needed another meeting. He’d talked to Winter, he told Willard, and there were important decisions to be made. When Willard said it would have to wait until Thursday at the earliest, Faraday lost his temper. It was Willard’s idea to put Winter to the test. The least he could do was give the man some kind of hearing.

In the end, with some reluctance, Willard had agreed they should talk. He had a couple of items he needed to pick up from the boat. He’d drive across to Gosport. If Faraday cared to present himself at the main gate to the Hornet Sailing Club at half past seven, Willard would pick him up and take him down to the clubhouse. If he stopped throwing his toys out of the pram, Willard added, he might even buy Faraday a spot of supper.

The ferry berthed alongside the Gosport pontoon and Faraday joined the surge of late commuters as they jostled to step ashore. The last of the rain had cleared now and there was the promise of a glorious sunset beyond the shadowed tower blocks that dominated the waterfront. Faraday set off along the Millennium Walk that skirted the harbour, enjoying the freshness of the air. This time in the evening, across the water, Pompey was at its best, the sleek billow of the new Spinnaker Tower bone-white against the greys of the dockyard below, the tumble of pubs and houses in nearby Old Portsmouth glowing in the rich golden light. At moments like this, he thought, there was no finer place to call home.

The former HMS
Hornet
was tucked behind the westerly arm of the harbour entrance. Sheltered on all sides, it had become a haven for a couple of hundred members of the Royal Naval Sailing Association looking for good company and somewhere decent to keep their yachts. Faraday paused on the bridge that overlooked the marina, gazing down at the forest of masts below. Berths like these, so close to the harbour entrance, were gold dust, and membership of Hornet, he knew, was strictly controlled. Quite how Willard had managed to swing it was a mystery.

The new Head of CID met him at the gate. They walked down towards the clubhouse, Willard pausing to point out a neat-looking yacht on a nearby pontoon. It was clearly his pride and joy.

‘Moody 27.’ He smiled. ‘Beautiful manners. Sails like a dream.’

He’d bought a half stake, he said, from a chum of his who was currently holding down an important staff job with C-in-C Fleet on Whale Island. As a serving Commander, Rory naturally had the pick of the best party invites and was nice enough to include his new shipmate when the opportunity presented itself. So for twelve and a half grand, as Willard pointed out, he’d acquired not only his share in
Pipsqueak
, but a whole new raft of well-connected friends.

‘They’re nice people,’ he said. ‘Come and see my new club.’

The clubhouse was a low brick and timber building with a fine view of the marina. Willard took Faraday through to the bar and signed him in, exchanging nods and the odd remark with some of the faces around him. Willard’s ability to ride the social tide, his unerring instinct for the people who really mattered, had never ceased to amaze Faraday. He’d been coming to this place for no more than a couple of months, he thought. Yet already Willard was treating it like home.

Faraday ordered fish and chips and found a table beneath a line of framed photos featuring a variety of yachts. The bar was crowded, evidently visiting sailors from a club down the coast. Willard elbowed his way through the scrum, deposited two pints on the table. The food would be coming shortly.

‘Winter,’ he said, settling into a chair beside Faraday. ‘Tell me.’

Faraday recounted the conversation he’d had back at Kingston Crescent. Winter, he said, had readily admitted meeting Mackenzie on Saturday afternoon. Mackenzie had warned him off Mickey Kearns, and Winter, in turn, had told him to fuck off.

‘He said that?’

‘In terms, yes.’

‘And you believe him?’

‘I do.’

‘How come?’

‘Because Mackenzie, or people very close to Mackenzie, took it upon themselves to sort Winter out.’

‘I’m not with you. How, exactly?’

Faraday told him about Saturday night, about the van, about what happened afterwards.

‘That’s totally out of order.’ Willard hadn’t touched his beer. ‘Just who do these people think they are?’

‘That was Winter’s point.’

‘So why on earth didn’t he do something about it?’

‘He did. He talked to me.’

‘Two days later? Come on, Joe. This is beyond belief. He’s a serving police officer, for God’s sake. There are rules here. He can’t rewrite them. You call for the cavalry. You sound the alarm. You start making life extremely difficult for the likes of Mr Mackenzie.’

‘He had no direct evidence against him. The guys in the van were smart. He saw nothing, heard nothing.’

‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re really telling me you believe him?’

‘Yes.’ Faraday nodded. ‘But this is where it gets interesting.’

He told Willard about the photos and the missing mobile. Both, in the right hands, were priceless ammunition. And Mackenzie, as it turned out, was the man with the loaded gun.

‘He called on Winter last night. For a social chat.’

‘I bet he did. He’s on a nicking.’

‘But why the rush?’ Faraday was smiling now. ‘Sir?’

Willard’s face darkened, the usual cue for an explosion of wrath. For a second or two Faraday feared the worst. Then the Detective Chief Superintendent seemed to relax. He reached for his beer, took a sip, put it down again.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’m listening.’

Faraday took his time. This is important, he told himself. Screw this up and Winter will be looking at his P45.

‘We still have a very big interest in Mackenzie, right, sir? Not because of
Coppice
. Not because we necessarily think he might have anything to do with what happened to Duley. But because he is what he is. Not a gram of cocaine comes into this city without Mackenzie’s say-so. And he has twenty million quid in the bank to prove it.’

‘Go on.’

‘You asked me to keep an eye on Winter. The way you see it, the POCA legislation is a stick we can use to beat the likes of Mackenzie. You think Winter might be part of that process.’

‘It’s possible, yes. Though my senior colleagues are far from keen on the idea. They think Winter belongs on the street. Not poncing around the force trying to spread the word about the Proceeds of Crime Act.’

‘They may be right.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes, sir. But there may be a better way to bring these people down.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘OK, then let me explain. It works like this. Mackenzie’s got Winter by the throat. He’s humiliated the man and he’s got the evidence to prove it. He thinks there’s no way Winter’s going to risk losing face with the rest of us, and that’s a judgement you’d understand. Except it now happens that Mackenzie’s wrong.’

Somebody behind the galley counter announced a ticket number. Two plates of fish and chips. Willard didn’t take his eyes off Faraday.

‘You want to put Winter into play against Mackenzie, ’ he said slowly.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘By having him run with the man.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As a kind of double agent.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Terrific. So who says we can trust him?’

‘Who?’

‘Our Mr Winter.’

‘Me, sir.’

‘That’s a very big claim, Joe. What makes you so sure?’

He glanced at his ticket, then got up and headed for the bar. Faraday cleared a space on the table for the plates. Willard returned, unloading sachets of tartare sauce from his jacket pocket.

‘Well?’ He was wrestling with the foil on the tartare sauce.

Faraday speared a chip, popped it in his mouth. Finally, he said that Winter loved the job too much to hazard it. That was their guarantee. That said they were bulletproof.

‘But people change, Joe. Especially after all the traumas he’s been through.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Which is why I OK’d the deployment to Major Crimes in the first place. So you could keep an eye on him. Remember?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘So where are the real guarantees? Only it’s more than Winter’s head on the block.’

Faraday acknowledged the point. He’d already taken Winter off
Coppice
, an obvious precaution while Mackenzie was still, at least technically, in the frame. Tomorrow, with Barrie’s agreement, he intended to remove him from the Intelligence Cell altogether. That way he was denied access to key resources, like the Police National Computer.

‘Good point.’ Willard nodded his approval. ‘So what will you do with him?’

‘I’ll pair him up with Dawn Ellis. She’s steady. That way he’ll still be on
Tartan
, which is fair enough because Givens was his Misper from the start.’

‘Driving licence?’

‘He’ll have to depend on Ellis. It shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Fine. And in the meantime? As far as Mackenzie is concerned?’

‘Winter reports to me. Or Martin Barrie. That would be your call.’

Willard nodded, turning his attention to the plate of food in front of him. Minutes later, most of it had gone. Willard tidied his remaining chips into a neat pile and coated them with sauce.

‘This is huge, Joe,’ he said at last. ‘It’s a clever idea, I’ll grant you that, but I’ll have to sleep on it. It’s not just Winter, it’s Mackenzie too. He’s a clever bastard. One minute he’s playing into your hands. The next he bites you on the arse. I’m not going through
Tumbril
again. Not even for you.’

‘It’s not
Tumbril
, sir, with respect. On
Tumbril
we made the running, or tried to. This time it’s Mackenzie’s call.’

‘Says you.’

‘Who else then? Who else makes the running?’

‘Winter, of course.’ Willard licked a smear of sauce from his finger. ‘Which is where we began this conversation.’

 

Winter sat on his balcony, watching the lights of the Gosport ferry approaching across the harbour. This afternoon’s conversation with Faraday had disturbed him more than he cared to admit, not least because he’d let the DI play him so artfully. Not only that, but - in a move that Winter recognised only too well - he appeared to be keeping his knowledge of Winter’s little transgressions entirely to himself. It wasn’t that he mistrusted Faraday. It wasn’t even that he disliked him. On the contrary, he’d begun to develop something close to a healthy respect for the man.

No, it was altogether simpler than that. Buoyed by self-belief, Winter had kept his head above water for decades. Now, that self-belief had gone, stolen first by Mackenzie’s little jape, then latterly - for reasons he still couldn’t fathom - by Faraday. In front of both men, unaccountably, Winter had lowered his guard. And the results, all too predictably, were extremely ominous.

There still, of course, remained the possibility that Faraday would simply lift the phone and hand the whole affair, the entire shambles, over to Professional Standards. That would undoubtedly make life a great deal simpler for a hard-pressed DI. Winter would be ghosted away, put out to grass pending some kind of disciplinary hearing, and in due course the bureaucracy would wash its hands of him. There might be a paragraph or two in
Frontline
, glossing the facts, and a cheerless round of farewell drinks in the Fratton bar, but that, essentially, would be that. Like so many other washed-up cops, beached by graft, or greed, or a misplaced enthusiasm for breaking the rules, Winter would be left with the dribble of a pension and a terrifying emptiness that nothing else could possibly fill. One week would vanish into the next. He’d start getting interested in the horses or Sudoku. He’d lift the phone to the odd face enquiring about the possibility of a pint or two. He might even find himself saving up the weekly Tesco shop until Friday afternoons, the high spot of this exciting new life of his. The prospect, all too real, filled him with gloom, and he flailed about, looking for some kind of explanation.