Borrowed Light (10 page)

‘Cheers, son.’ Winter unzipped his leather jacket and hung it carefully on the back of the chair. ‘Present from Marie, if
you’re wondering.’

‘I’m not. How are you?’

‘Starving. They do food here or do we eat later?’

‘Whatever.’ Suttle shrugged.
‘I’m on the meter.’

They sparred for a minute or two. Suttle had never hidden his disgust about the journey Winter had made. He agreed that the
Job got harder by the day, but that was no reason to rat on your mates. Mackenzie was an evil little scrote, and nothing would
ever change
that. Not a million-quid house in Craneswater. Not a Bentley in the garage. Not the likes of the
Guardian
getting suckered by Tide Turn Trust.

‘You finished, son?’

‘Just thought I’d mention it.’

‘And you saw the piece in the
Guardian
?’

‘Lizzie read me the best bits on the phone. She’s like me, Lizzie. Loves a good fairy tale.’

‘Son …’ Winter reached for his drink. ‘Like it or not, you’re looking at the next Mr Pompey. Bazza wants it. And what
Bazza wants he normally gets. Cheers. Here’s to crime.’

Winter went to the bar and ordered cod and chips. When he got back, Suttle was looking at his watch.

‘How long have we got, son?’

‘Twenty minutes. Tops. I’m due back at the ranch for a meeting at nine.’ He reached for his own drink. ‘Happy days.’

Winter wanted to know about Johnny Holman.

‘The guy’s dead, am I right?’

‘As far as we know.’

‘Is that confirmed?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘What does that mean, son?’

‘It means that we’ve done the PM, looked for non-existent finger-prints, sent off a DNA swab for analysis, applied for his
dental records. He’s the right sex, right shape. Plus he lived there.’

‘Means nothing.’

‘We can put him in the property at one in the morning.’

‘Who says?’

‘A taxi driver. Delivered one of the daughters back home. Holman was the one who ponied up the fare.’

‘Right.’ Winter nodded, thoughtful. ‘So who’d want to kill him?’

‘Good question. And since you’re here –’ Suttle smiled ‘– what do
you
think?’

‘I don’t know, son. What’s the scene telling you? All those guys you’ve got on site?’

Suttle didn’t answer. Since Faraday’s phone call he’d been thinking hard about Winter. There had to be a reason he was here.
Nail down the exact nature of his interest and
Gosling
might take a giant step forward.

‘The scene’s telling us fuck all,’ he said at last. ‘Whoever torched the place knew exactly what they were doing. If you want
to talk evidence, we’re looking at about a ton and a half of sludge. These people even got the weather right. First the fire
brigade dump a
thousand gallons of water on the place. Then it never stops raining. To be honest, I think we’re stuffed.’

‘People?’ Winter didn’t miss a trick.

‘Person or persons unknown. You know all about Holman. This is a guy who’s spent half his life in dodgy company. I haven’t
a clue who he’s been upsetting lately but it might have been wise to wind his neck in.’

‘You think this is some kind of slapping?’

‘No, it’s got be more than that.’

‘Like what then? Why would anyone set fire to four people?’

‘No idea.’

‘You’re lying, son. Do me a favour, eh? Just pretend I’ve got a brain in my head. You’re right about Holman. In the day he
had his fingers in all kinds of pies. But that’s history. Since the accident he’s done nothing but piss his life away. He
might have run up a decent bill at Thresher’s. They might be after a cheque or two. But they ain’t gonna burn his fucking
house down.’

‘Thresher’s, eh?’ Suttle was grinning now. ‘We ought to give you your job back. Busy tomorrow, are you?’

‘Fuck off, son. Treat me like a grown-up. I’m telling you what you know already.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Holman crossed someone. And that someone was upset enough to kill him. The question is why?’

‘Maybe you should ask that boss of yours.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Because they’ve been talking recently.’

‘How do you know?’

‘How do you think I fucking know?’

Winter nodded. Suttle was right. There were a million ways the guys on Major Crime could help themselves to bits of Holman’s
life. Phone records. Bank statements. Even intercepts if he’d qualified for sneaky-beaky.

Suttle was watching him carefully.

‘You didn’t know about Mackenzie and Holman?’

‘You’re winding me up.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know it.’

‘How?’

‘Because Mackenzie pays me to know. And if I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you.’

‘Fishing expedition, is it?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘It
is
a fishing expedition. You know something …’ He beckoned Winter closer. ‘If I were you I’d go home to that nice Mr M and
ask him why he never told you about Holman.’

‘Told me what?’

‘Just ask him. Just put the question. And then ask him why he pays you all that money and
still
keeps you out of the loop.’ His hand closed over Winter’s. He gave it a little squeeze. ‘You get that for free, mate. One
for the old days, yeah?’

Winter stared at him. For once in his life the uncertainty was showing in his face and he knew it. He stood up, slipped on
the leather jacket, ignored the girl from the kitchen approaching with a plate of cod and chips.

‘Been a pleasure, son,’ he muttered. ‘As always.’

It was nearly half past nine by the time Faraday got to Salisbury. He followed directions to the district hospital and came
to a halt in the huge car park at the back of the complex. At this time of night the building was nearly empty, the last dribble
of visitors queuing to pay their tickets at the machine.

The hospital looked brand new. Faraday found his way inside and took the stairs to Level 4. A long broad corridor stretched
ahead, not a person in sight. He had no idea if he could get into the Burns Unit at this time of night but he was determined
to try.

The entrance to the unit lay to the right. The two swing doors were locked. Through the window Faraday could see another corridor
disappearing into the ward. There was no sign of anyone. Beside the door was an entryphone. He buzzed twice. Nothing. He waited
a full minute for someone to answer then buzzed again. At length a nurse appeared. She studied him through the glass, then
opened the door an inch or two.

Faraday introduced himself, apologised for the lateness of the hour, asked whether a woman called Gabrielle was still inside.

‘The French lady?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m afraid not. She went about half an hour ago.’

‘I see.’ Faraday checked his watch. ‘Was she going back to the B & B?’

‘I don’t know. She didn’t say.’

‘Did she leave a message at all?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘OK.’ He was looking beyond her. There was another figure in the corridor, an older man, checking everything was OK. ‘The
little girl, Leila. How is she?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t give you information like that. You’d have to ask the sister in charge.’

‘Is she here?’

‘She is but she’s busy just now.’

‘OK.’ Faraday toyed with pushing the conversation a little further, offering to wait until the sister was free, but decided
against it. He’d come to see Gabrielle, not start a ruck with the National Health Service. He gave the nurse a nod and turned
on his heel, hearing the sigh of the door as it closed behind him.

In the Mondeo he fired up his satnav. The Avon View was down the road. Minutes later, spotting the name, he parked at the
kerbside and killed the engine. A bus whined past, empty except for a single passenger. Faraday looked up at the house. It
was a decent size. Once it might have served as a family home. Now, upstairs, a single light. He pulled his coat around him.
He felt cold and uncertain. This was a long way from the Burmese border.

He phoned Gabrielle from the crescent of gravel in front of the house. He explained he was outside and looked up at the window,
half-expecting her shadow to appear against the curtain. Her room was at the back, she said. She’d be down
tout de suite
.

Faraday waited. The wind tasted of rain again. Far away, the hoot of an owl.

The front door opened. Gabrielle was wearing a dressing gown he didn’t recognise. She must have been in Salisbury since getting
back from El Arish, he thought.

‘Mind if I come in?’

He stepped inside without waiting for an answer. She closed the door behind him. No kiss. No hug of welcome.

‘This way,
chéri
.’

He followed her up the stairs. There was a smell of furniture polish and cheap air freshener. Cold.

Her room was tucked away in a kind of annexe. She’d left the door open. The single bed was unmade, light from the corridor
throwing soft shadows over the rumpled sheets. Gabrielle’s rucksack lay abandoned on the chair beneath the window. Various
bits of clothing were draped over the back of the chair. On the shelf beside the bed, a copy of
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.
Faraday had found it in a bookshop in Aqaba. She’d nearly got to the end.

Gabrielle turned the light on and gestured round. She was camping here, she said. She was always apologising to the cleaner
for the mess but she hadn’t had time to do anything about it. Most nights, like now, she just wanted to go to bed. Faraday
nodded. The message was clear: he was an intruder.

He sat down on the bed, looked up at her. He wanted to cry. Knew he mustn’t.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘You
know
?’ He blinked. None of this made sense. The not phoning. The not being there. The not sharing this secret life she’d suddenly
decided to make her own.

She sat down beside him. He felt her hand over his. It was the touch of a mother or a nurse, a small obligatory gesture of
comfort. He took his hand away. Anything but this, he thought.

He looked sideways at her, two passengers on a train going nowhere, robbed of conversation, robbed of everything.

‘So what’s happening?’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You know what it is,
chéri.
’

‘I don’t. I should but I don’t. So why don’t you tell me?’

He felt a small hard pebble of anger deep in his belly. He tried to ignore it. Failed completely.

Gabrielle had pulled the dressing gown more tightly around her. She looked pale and thin but the bruising from the accident
had gone. Leila, she explained, had been back to the operating theatre for another change of dressings. The staff were lovely
to her, the doctors too, but they didn’t hide how serious her condition was. Burns were horrible, especially these kinds of
burns, and the
phosphore
had made things worse. The Israelis, she said, were
des salopards.
They’d killed without mercy, without even thinking about it, and the worst of it all was kids like Leila, hundreds of them,
marked for life, inside and out.

‘
Des salopards
,’ she repeated. Nasty bastards.

Faraday felt himself nodding. He’d never seen her like this, so angry, so intense. Maybe this explained a little about the
last month or so. What had happened in Gaza had swamped her little boat. She was oblivious to everything else.

‘So what’s going to happen?’ he said again. ‘As far as Leila is concerned?’

‘
J’sais pas, chéri
.’
She was staring at her hands. ‘She has a translator with her, Riham. She talks to Riham a little. Riham says she wants to
go home.’

‘Of course. She would.’

‘But to what?
Gaza est complètement détruit.
Wrecked. Her family too.
Morte
.’ Dead. Gone.

‘All of them?’

‘I think so.’

‘Do you
know
that?’

Her head came up and she looked at him.

‘You talk to me like a
flic.
’

‘I am a
flic
.’

‘
Alors.
’ She shrugged. ‘So maybe she has an aunt, an uncle, I don’t know. If she gets better …’ She shrugged again. ‘
J’sais pas
.’

Faraday knew how important it was to keep talking. On the floor, half hidden by a Médecins Sans Frontières T-shirt, he’d spotted
another book.
Arabic for Beginners.

‘So what are the options?’ he said quietly.
‘If she doesn’t go home?’

Gabrielle shook her head. She didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to think about it. She went to
the hospital every day. She was there first thing in the morning to be with Leila when she woke up. In the afternoon, when
she slept, she’d take the bus down into Salisbury. She’d found a little delicatessen where she could buy halloumi cheese and
baklava and figs, tastes the little girl would recognise, little treats that might help build a bridge between them. The staff
had a special fridge to keep stuff like this. Leila liked stories too.

‘Who reads to her?’ Faraday’s gaze had returned to the book on the floor.

‘Riham. You know what Riham means in Arabic,
chéri
?
It means a fine rain that lasts for ever. Isn’t that beautiful?’ For the first time she was smiling. Faraday wanted to kiss
her. Instead, he took her hand. It was cold, stiff, unresponsive.

Faraday asked her how long Leila would spend in the unit. Gabrielle frowned. The doctors were saying a month at least, probably
longer. It depended on the antibiotics they were giving her. The burns were badly infected. She was already weak.

‘And afterwards? When she comes out of hospital?’

Another silence. Then another shake of the head.

‘I don’t know,
chéri.
You tell me.’

‘Me?
Me
tell you?’

‘
Oui
.’
She nodded and then summoned a small brave smile. ‘She could be ours,
chéri.
This little girl.’

Winter took a cab to Craneswater. Sandown Road was one of a handful of leafy avenues off the quieter end of Southsea seafront.
Ownership of one of these big Edwardian villas conferred a certain status in what passed for the upper reaches of Portsmouth
society. It meant you were successful, probably white and almost certainly wealthy. Bazza Mackenzie, to his immense satisfaction,
ticked all three boxes.

Winter, still angry, settled his cab fare and turned to look at the house. Unusually for this time of night the big metal
security gates were still open. Beyond, beside Mackenzie’s Bentley, were two other cars he hadn’t seen before. One was a Mercedes
coupé, the other an Audi. He gave the nearest of Mackenzie’s CCTV cameras a curt nod and walked to the front door.

Marie let him in. She knew at once that Winter had something to get off his chest.

‘We’re still having dinner.’ She looked him in the eye and then gave him a kiss. ‘Come and join us.’

Winter followed her into the dining room. Faces turned briefly towards the door before the buzz of conversation resumed again.
Mackenzie was deep in conversation with a sleek thirty-something across the table. Designer jeans, crisp white collarless
shirt, winter tan, a hint of stubble. Leo Kinder.

Winter found himself a chair and sat down. Mackenzie pushed the bottle of Remy Martin in his direction.

‘Leo here thinks we’re sitting on a gold mine. And he thinks we’re about to cash in big time. Isn’t that right, Leo?’

‘Politically …’ Kinder nodded. ‘Yes.’

Kinder favoured Winter with his soft brown smile. Winter hadn’t trusted him from the off. Too smooth. Almost feline.

‘How does that work then?’ he heard himself say.

‘Politics is all about catching the tide, Paul. Just now I get the sense that the tide’s running in our favour. You know something’s
happening when papers like the
Guardian
come knocking on your door. This stuff’s viral. If they take us seriously then word spreads.’

Winter loved the way he said ‘us’. A couple of months ago no one in this house had ever heard of Leo Kinder.

‘
GQ
, mush.’ Mackenzie was grinning fit to bust. ‘Leo says they’re up for a big piece for some spring special they’re planning.
And it doesn’t stop there, eh, Leo?’

‘By no means.’ The smile again. ‘Since the
Guardian
, the phone’s been ringing non-stop. Everyone wants a piece of what Baz has to say. I’m telling them to form an orderly queue
at the door. This stuff’s free. It doesn’t cost us a cent. Plus editorial is the best kicker of all. You can’t buy this kind
of coverage, no way. It’s the old story, Paul. The right time and the right place. Like I say, all we have to do is ride the
tide.’

‘You’re a sweetie, Leo, you really are. I love your optimism. I love your
faith.
No wonder the Tories kicked you out. But where’s all this stuff going to take you?’

The question came from a woman at the end of the table. She was Kinder’s age, maybe a year or two older. She had a lean gym-honed
face and the scoop-neck T-shirt beneath the linen jacket would have kept Mackenzie happy all evening. The Mercedes, thought
Winter. Fashionably black.

‘Selina,’ Marie did the introductions, ‘meet Paul. Paul Winter.’

Winter noted the flash of recognition in her eyes. There wasn’t a
particle of warmth in her smile. She was still waiting for an answer from Kinder. Tarting around with the likes of the
Guardian
was fine, and well done for blagging the interview, but politics was part of the retail business these days, so what exactly
did Mr Pompey have to sell?

‘There’s a hole in the market, Selina, a niche we can fill. The old Labour core vote has given up on this lot. They’re white,
lots of them are skint, jobs are hard to find. They’ve been around a while and they quite liked Mr Blair in the early days,
but he turned out to be a Tory so that pissed them off. Brown’s let them down even more. He’s Blair without the charm. These
people are lost. They’re in the fucking wilderness. So where do they go?’

‘The BNP, if they’ve got any sense.’

‘They hate the BNP. It’s in their DNA. And you know something else? They hate politicians too. That’s New Labour’s great achievement,
numero uno
. They’ve debauched the currency. And I’m not talking money. We need a new kind of politician, someone recognisably human,
someone in touch, someone with a bit of guile, a bit of experience. Someone who’s been out there and made a quid or two and
knows the way things work. We used to call them Tories, but these days even the Conservatives are New Labour clones. So there
you are. You’ve had it up to here with politicians, you think they’re all a waste of space, but the country still has to muddle
through. So where do you spend your vote? Who gets to catch your eye?’

His hand extended across the table towards Mackenzie, an almost courtly gesture of introduction. Bazza, unusually gracious,
offered a nod in acknowledgement. Very papal.

Selina wasn’t convinced. ‘So it doesn’t end with Pompey? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying the time is right to start thinking laterally. For my sins I keep my ear to the ground. Like I say, politicians
are damaged goods already, but the way I hear it, things in that department may well get a whole lot worse.’

The credit crunch, he said, had pushed the bankers against the wall. The government had bailed them out with oodles of public
money and they knew they were in for a caning. No more fat year-end bonuses. Loads of regulation. Their greedy hands tied
firmly behind their backs.