No Lovelier Death (34 page)

Winter put his head back, turned it towards the sun.

‘You went off to find Westie last night,’ he said softly ‘You told him to sort Danny Cooper out. Why? Because you’re shit scared young Danny’s going to end up answering a lot of hard questions about all that charlie at Rachel’s party. That’s going to get back to your mate Aulty. And your mate Aulty’s not going to be best pleased. Am I getting warm, Baz? Or is this just a bent old copper barking up the wrong fucking alley?’

Mackenzie was staring at the kids on the lilo. Winter hadn’t finished.

‘And maybe there’s more,’ he said. ‘Maybe you had some kind of hand in Danny fitting up the girl’s brother because you thought Danny deserved encouragement. Good young prospect. Chip off the old block. Don’t ask me what kind of hand because I don’t know. All I can remember is Westie pouring boiling water all over the boy, and he doesn’t do that unless there’s a fucking big problem. But jugging the kid didn’t sort it. Not in your head. Not with Aulty expected any minute. So you pop along to let Westie off his lead and next thing you’ve got him on the phone in the middle of the night with another big fucking problem.’

‘Yeah? You really think so? Well, mush, let me tell you something about Westie. The bloke’s lost it. The man’s a liability. He’s got a whack of money. He won’t be back.’

‘So you did see him?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Told him to go round to Danny’s place?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Told him to kill the boy?’

‘I told him to finish it.’

‘Same thing isn’t it? In Westie’s book?’

‘Dunno, mush.’ Mackenzie shrugged, turning his head away.

‘Westie’s gone. He’s off the plot. Good fucking riddance.’

‘Sure. But you think it ends there?’

‘Of course it does. He’s careful, Westie. Wears gloves. Takes his time. I told him about the house. Go through those allotments; no one would ever see you.’

‘Soil? Trainers? Sole patterns?’

‘He wears Guccis.’

‘What about his car? Afterwards? You’re telling me he’s not got a drop of blood on him? After what he’d done to the boy?’

‘Fuck knows. If you’re worried about Barbara, I’ll square her. She’s good as gold, that woman. The cab driver too. All it takes is money, mush. You should know that.’

There was a long silence. Mackenzie wanted this over. Winter could tell.

‘It’s still outside Westie’s flat,’ Winter said at last. ‘I checked this afternoon.’

‘What is?’

‘The car. The Alfa.’

‘So what?’

‘It’s a crime scene, Baz. It’ll have Danny Cooper’s blood inside it, maybe on the seat off Westie’s kaks, maybe on the floor off those nice Guccis. And you know what else they’ll find if they have a proper look?’

Mackenzie was still watching the kids. He shook his head.

‘Prints, Baz. Yours and mine. From Westie’s first little house call the other day. Remember?’

 

Faraday, over supper, broached the subject of the kids again. After last night he sensed it would be safe to stray onto Gabrielle’s turf. She’d been frightened by the mugging, not simply in the obvious way but because it had been an abrupt reminder that no one was immune from these sudden spasms of violence, least of all a nosy French anthropologist with too many questions to ask.

‘You told me last night you’ve got a name for the kid who jumped you.’

‘
Oui?
’

‘You want to tell me?’

‘
Pourquoi?
’

‘Because I might be able to do something about it.’

She shook her head, speared an asparagus stalk.

‘
Non
,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. Maybe the boy needs the money.

Maybe he’s starving.
Ça ne fait rien.
Me? I have everything.’ Her hand closed over Faraday’s and gave it a squeeze.

‘But you’ll be careful from now on?’

‘
Oui, absolument.’
She smiled at him. She appreciated his concern.

‘Tell me something. The party on Saturday. The one where the girl died. There’s a photo in the paper. I saw it yesterday. Jax Bonner?’

Faraday smiled. She pronounced it
bonheur. Bonheur
meant happiness.

‘What about her?’

‘You really think she did it? Killed the other girl?’

‘I think we need to ask her some questions.’

‘But you think she might have done it?’

‘I think she could be dangerous.’

‘
Chéri …’
She put her fork down. ‘You won’t answer my questions. ’

‘That’s because I can’t.’

‘So careful. So
prudent.
’

‘Of course. You’d expect nothing else.’

‘But you know where this girl lives?’

‘We have an idea, yes.’

‘So you’ve seen her? You’re watching her?’

‘No. We’ve searched her house. She’s gone.’

‘
Alors …’
She was frowning, weighing her next question, and looking at her face Faraday was suddenly aware that she knew. She knew about this girl. She might even have met her. Talked to her. She knew everything.

Faraday reached for her hand again, felt it curl round his.

‘When I say dangerous, I mean she hurts people. I expect she hurts people for lots of reasons, but I’m a copper, not a psychiatrist, and it’s my job to find her before she does it again. Because she will. Unless we stop her.’

‘So you think she
did
kill the girl?’

Faraday made a habit of weighing questions like these extremely carefully. In his heart he knew he couldn’t be sure but now wasn’t the time to say so.

‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I think she did.’

 

It was dark by the time Winter met Bazza Mackenzie on the seafront, directly opposite the block where Westie had a flat. Mackenzie pulled in beside the Alfa. He was driving Marie’s Peugeot cabriolet, a present from last Christmas. The window purred down and Bazza waited while Winter crossed the road.

‘OK, mush?’

Winter sniffed the night air, wondering whether Marie did prawns with her garlic. Mackenzie’s mouth and jaw were still shiny with grease.

‘Never better, Baz. Spot of twocking? Bring it on.’

He knew the idea was reckless but just now he couldn’t think of an alternative. All it took was a single clue, a single oversight on Westie’s part, and for most of his ex-colleagues it would suddenly be party time. A chance sighting of a black guy picking his way across a bunch of allotments? Something Westie might have left in Cooper’s house? It didn’t matter. Once the Major Crime lot had a name in the frame, they’d start looking for an ageing Alfa Romeo. And what they’d doubtless find inside didn’t bear contemplation.

Mackenzie got out of the Peugeot. He had a screwdriver in one hand and a tyre lever in the other. It wasn’t elegant but seconds later, with the door frame dented, he was sitting behind the wheel of the Alfa.

‘Turn off that fucking light, Baz. I’m sure it’ll all come back to you.’

Mackenzie reached up and tried to kill the courtesy light but without success. Then he bent to the dashboard and began to fumble around beneath it. Winter wasn’t sure about his boss’s hot-wiring skills and he certainly took his time, but in the end the engine coughed into life. The courtesy light had at last gone out.

‘There you go, mush.’ Mackenzie stepped out, looking pleased with himself.

Winter made himself comfortable, adjusting the seat and the rear-view mirror. Mackenzie was back behind the wheel of the Peugeot. He’d given Winter directions to an industrial estate in Portchester, up on the mainland. He’d be following behind, keeping an eye on things, but if they got separated in traffic they’d meet at the end of the journey.

‘Look for Perfect Glazing,’ he said again. ‘Geezer called Barry.’

Winter backed carefully out, waiting for a couple of lads on scooters to whine past, then set off towards Bradford Junction. It was a while since Winter had a working knowledge of every CCTV camera monitoring the major junctions, and there’d doubtless be extra ones, but the route he’d chosen to get them out of the city still felt pretty safe.

He settled down, checking the mirror. He could see Bazza’s face as they passed each street lamp. Mackenzie’s fingers were drumming on the steering wheel and Winter wondered what music he was listening to. From time to time the Alfa’s courtesy light flickered on.

Beyond Bradford Junction, Winter nosed into Fratton Road, then pulled a hard right, entering a maze of side streets that would spit him out at the city’s northern end. Bazza was still tailing him.

Most of these streets were one-way, with cars parked on both sides of the road. Winter took it easy, keeping his speed down. On a Thursday night traffic was light. One of the busier roads he had to cross was Stubbington Avenue. He slowed the Alfa to a halt, waiting for a car from the right. Moments later he realised it was a traffic patrol car. Two uniforms peered out at him as they passed. Then the driver hit the brakes, stopped. Winter was already pulling out. He gunned the Alfa, aware of Bazza behind him. The traffic car was reversing fast into the road they’d just left. The driver had already switched on the blues. Next he’d hit the siren. Shit.

Winter eyed the speedo. Fifty in streets like these was asking for trouble. He tried to relax, tried to tell himself he was making the right decision. With his reputation there was no way he’d risk a stop-check. These guys would like nothing better than the chance to drive him down to the Bridewell and book him in. And what would happen then? Once they had a proper look at Westie’s precious fucking Alfa?

He took a chance on the next intersection, never taking his foot off the throttle. Thankfully the road was clear in both directions. Bazza followed, a squat figure hunched behind the wheel, and it occurred to Winter that he was probably enjoying this. Being a grown-up businessman doubtless had its advantages but nothing beat the raw adrenalin buzz of a traffic car halfway up your arse. So how come the woollies had stopped in the first place? Winter shook his head. He knew there were a million explanations. Someone must have clocked them on the seafront and phoned the car in, he thought. Two dodgy guys round an Alfa. Too fucking right.

They were in North End now, and with a cold certainty Winter knew they were running out of options. The next intersection would take them onto one of the main roads funnelling traffic off the island. If they got that far, they were dead.

Winter was still debating whether to risk a high-speed turn into one of the side streets to the left when he heard a squeal of brakes behind him. Then, milliseconds later, came the sound of tearing metal and splintering glass as the police car smashed into Marie’s new Peugeot. Already, in the rear-view mirror, the accident was receding. In seconds it would be no more than a dot. Winter, slowing for the turn into the main road, heard the sound of his own laughter. Bazza, he thought. What a fucking star.

The big roundabout at the top of the island took him onto the dual carriageway that ran to the foot of Portsdown Hill. Within minutes, he knew, the woollies would have every traffic car in the city looking for him. He took the Alfa up to seventy, slowing for the new junction beside the Marriott Hotel. Thankfully, the lights were green. He powered across, then slowed for traffic on the other side. Under normal circumstances the Marriot to Portchester was a five-minute drive. Tonight, once he’d passed a couple of dawdlers, he did it in three. He knew the industrial estate well. He’d spent hours here over the past decade, plotted up with half a dozen other guys, waiting to lift some scrote or other. Perfect Glazing was round the back of the estate next to the railway line.

He turned the Alfa onto the forecourt and killed the lights. After a while a figure emerged from the shadows and strolled across to the Alfa. Winter wound the window down. Barry Cassidy. An old face from the 6.57. From far away came the howl of a siren. Then another, much closer. Barry was grinning. He nodded at the gaping mouth of the industrial unit.

‘In there, mush. Quick as you like.’

 

Jimmy Suttle gave up on Winter shortly after eleven. He’d spent the best part of the evening in a fish restaurant in Gunwharf. One of the management assistants on Major Crime had been raving about the Loch Fyne in the old Vulcan Building, and Lizzie Hodson had been happy to join him.

Now, strolling along the waterfront, Suttle paused beside Blake House. He was still curious to know why Berriman had been of such interest to Winter.
Someone I need to talk to
, he’d said. He looked up at Winter’s apartment. The lights were off in the windows at the front and when he rounded the corner there was no sign of life in the kitchen or either of the bedrooms. Earlier he’d warned Lizzie that he might have to bring this evening of theirs to a premature end. Now there seemed no point.

He stepped back onto the waterfront, pausing to watch as the big night ferry to Ouistreham rumbled past. He and Lizzie had been talking earlier about a promotional offer in the
News
. Twenty quid all up for two night crossings and a day ashore. Watching the huge white bulk of the ferry, he wondered whether she’d been serious.

‘Fancy it?’ He nodded towards the harbour mouth.

‘France?’ She nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Definitely.’

‘How’s your French?’

‘Not bad.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘Maybe we ought to practise first.’

FRIDAY, 17 AUGUST 2007.
08.46

Faraday took the call from D/C Jessie Williams as he was driving to work. The Aults had just phoned. They’d been offered a lift down to Southsea and they’d be in Sandown Road around nine o’clock. Jessie had agreed to meet them outside the house. Was Faraday still interested in joining the party?

Faraday checked his watch. Nearly ten to nine.

‘I’ll meet you there.’ He checked his mirror and began to signal left.