One Under (20 page)

‘But how is he?’

‘Impossible to say, I’m afraid.’

‘How did he look?’

‘Poorly. I understand he’d been stabbed.’

‘That’s right. That’s what they told us.’

‘Then,’ she tried to sound sympathetic, ‘it’s a question of where and how deep and whether or not anything really important got in the way. I simply can’t help you, I’m afraid.’ She got up, shepherding Winter back towards the waiting area. ‘You’re welcome to stay, of course. In fact you could give next-of-kin details to the front desk if you’re a close friend. There’s coffee from the machine by the door. Someone will come through for you once he’s out of theatre.’

Winter nodded, mumbled his thanks. Back at the reception desk he scribbled down a contact in Major Crimes for a number for Suttle’s mum, then found himself a seat tucked away in an area reserved for teenagers. This corner of the waiting room was empty. He settled himself beneath a poster warning of the dangers of cocaine abuse and stared at the wall opposite. He hated hospitals, loathed waiting about, but just now he was beyond getting angry. He sat for a while, his head back, his eyes closed, trying not to think of this morning, of Jimmy with his wet flannel and his wagging finger, of other times they’d shared together - jobs they’d done, corners they’d cut, the look on the lad’s face when an especially cheeky move had taken a decent scalp. The boy was strong, he told himself. No God in his right mind would let him die. But then he thought about Joannie and this same hospital, these same smells, and the terrifying straightness of the line that led from admission to the worst news any man could ever hear. Would it be the same with Jimmy? Would there even be the time, the opportunity, to say goodbye?

Winter swallowed hard, fumbled blindly in his pocket for a Kleenex, felt tears welling behind his eyelids. Then came a voice he knew, very close, very soft.

‘Paul? You OK?’

He opened his eyes. Faraday’s face was a blur.

‘Boss … ’ he muttered. ‘ … What the fuck’s going on?’

 

An hour and a half later, Winter got a cab home. He’d stayed long enough to hear the outcome from the operating theatre. Jimmy Suttle was still alive, but only just. His blood pressure was giving cause for concern and the next twenty-four hours would be critical. Ewart’s thrust had sliced through the sheath of stomach muscle, missed his liver by millimetres, but wreaked havoc amongst the densely coiled loops of intestine below his belly. The surgeons had excised the worst of the damage, stitched the intact bits back together again, and given him a powerful dose of antibiotics to try and minimise the inevitable infection. With luck, the registrar had told Winter, the lad might survive, but it would be a while yet before he’d be in any kind of state to receive visitors.

Back at his apartment Winter sank onto the sofa. The sight of the teapot where Suttle had left it in the kitchen reduced him to tears again and he stared blankly at the darkening spaces of the harbour, knowing that there wasn’t enough Scotch in the world to soften the news he was dreading. Would they phone if he died in the night? And would Winter be able to cope if they did?

He shook his head, knowing that this was the last place he wanted to be, alone with his misery. He studied the phone for a moment or two. The list of people he could call was pathetically short. He thought of Dawn Ellis, then shook his head. They’d been close in the past, and she was a nice kid, but he felt uneasy about bothering her, especially since she’d been part of the same incident. He thought, too, of Faraday. Up at the hospital, he hadn’t even mentioned the Mondeo, even though Winter’s parking had attracted the attention of the clampers. But no, he realised it couldn’t be Faraday. For one thing the DI would be busy at the Bridewell, sorting Ewart out. And for another there was a limit to just how intimate you could be with your boss.

Winter got to his feet, utterly bereft. He wandered up and down the big living room for a while, toying with a handful of sleeping pills and an early night, but that - too - was less than perfect. He’d be awake by three, thinking too hard, listening for the phone, worrying himself to death. No, there had to be another solution, someone who’d pour beer down him, someone who knew a thing or two about how resilient the human body could be, someone he could trust to cheer him up. A name came to him and he paused, studying his own reflection in the big picture window. Of course, he thought.

 

The city’s Bridewell, which also served as the central police station, was a low, unlovely brick-built establishment connected by an underground corridor to the nearby magistrates’ courts. Holding cells housed newly arrested shoplifters, stroppy drunks on disorderly charges, and various other sweepings from the city’s streets. Karl Ewart occupied Cell 6.

The Custody Sergeant was manning the desk when Faraday arrived. He confirmed that Ewart had been processed, fingerprinted, photographed and given access to the duty solicitor. He’d no visible injuries and an examination by the police surgeon had found nothing else amiss.

‘Who’s duty?’

‘Michelle.’ The Custody Sergeant nodded towards an office door. ‘She’s waiting for you now.’

Faraday nodded. Michelle Brinton was a plump, freckle-faced solicitor in her late thirties. Portsmouth had come as a bit of a shock after five years practising in her native Tavistock but she’d coped well with the ceaseless drumbeat of big-city crime, and won respect amongst the detectives who’d dealt with her.

She was on the phone when Faraday went into the office. She brought the conversation to a close. She knew Jimmy Suttle well.

‘How is he?’

‘Rough.’

‘But he’s going to pull through?’

‘We hope so.’ Faraday helped himself to the spare seat. ‘You’ve talked to Ewart?’

‘I have.’

‘This thing is complicated. There’s more to it than Jimmy. We’ve arrested him on suspicion of fraud as well as attempted murder. I’ve no idea whether he’s discussed any of that with you.’

‘He hasn’t.’

‘Well, maybe he should have done. There are implications we need to explore.’

‘I’m sure.’ She reached for a pen, scribbled herself a note. ‘Fraud in connection with what, exactly?’

Faraday hesitated. He liked this woman but he owed Karl Ewart no favours.

‘Pompey season tickets,’ he said briskly. ‘Bought on a nicked debit card. Face value, we’re talking about a sum in excess of eight thousand. We think that’s down to Ewart.’

‘Would you care to tell me why?’

‘I’m afraid not. Ewart is clearly a violent individual. He has some serious questions to answer.’ Faraday checked his watch. ‘I’ll leave the rest to the interview team, if you don’t mind.’

 

Winter’s third call at last brought someone to the phone. A woman’s voice, Pompey accent.

‘Is Jake there?’

‘He’s in the shower. Just finished.’

‘Tell him it’s Paul.’

Winter hung onto the phone. In the background he could hear a television and the more distant yelling of kids.
EastEnders
, he thought.

‘Mr W.?’ It was Tarrant.

Winter was trying to visualise the scene. He knew nothing of Jake Tarrant’s private life except the trio of faces in the small gold-framed photo he kept on his office desk. The kids must be nearly school age, Winter thought. His wife looked gorgeous.

‘Jake. Listen, I know this is a bit sudden but I could really use another drink. On me, son. Or a meal, if you fancy it.’

‘I’ve just eaten,’ Tarrant said at once.

‘Drink then?’

There was a pause. Tarrant clearly wasn’t keen. Then he came back on the phone.

‘What’s this about?’

‘Nothing, son. Me, if you want the truth.’

‘You? How does that work?’

‘It’s complicated. Let’s just say today’s been a bummer. You know those days? Everything stacking up against you? Then something truly fucking horrible happening?’ Winter paused. He realised he was sweating. ‘Just a drink, son. I’d be grateful.’

‘Sure. Hang on a moment.’

Winter heard a muffled conversation, a hint of raised voices, then Jake back on the phone again. This time he was laughing.

‘Great idea, Mr W.’ He named a pub. ‘I could use a pint or two myself.’

 

By eight o’clock Faraday’s interview team were ready for their first session with Karl Ewart. Both Dawn Ellis and Bev Yates had been on the
Tartan
squad from the start of the operation, and an hour with the Tactical Interview Adviser back at Kingston Crescent had given them a shape for their dealings with Ewart over the coming days. PACE legislation only permitted suspects to be held for twenty-four hours, but given the seriousness of the attack on Suttle, Faraday anticipated no problems with obtaining an extension, if he had to. Ewart, everyone seemed to agree, was a nutter.

The turnkey brought him along to the interview suite. A little under six feet, thin-faced, unshaven, he was wearing a pair of second-hand tracksuit bottoms and an oversized T-shirt supplied by the Custody Sergeant. The jeans, trainers and grey hoodie in which he’d been arrested, all splashed with fresh blood, had already been bagged up and sent away for forensic examination.

Faraday retired to a nearby room. A video feed supplied him with live pictures from the interview, and he settled at the desk with his pad and pencil, his eyes glued to the monitor on the wall. Both uniforms acting as backup in Ashburton Road had seen Ewart stab Suttle, and Dawn Ellis had managed to coax a supporting statement from the woman whom Ewart had so briefly taken hostage. On this evidence alone, Ewart was in deep, deep trouble.

The preliminaries were over. Time, date and attending personnel had been recorded by Yates at the head of the audio and video tapes, and Michelle Brinton had signalled her willingness to begin the interview. Ewart sat beside her, slumped in the chair, head down, picking his fingers. He might, thought Faraday, have been waiting for a bus.

Yates was asking Ewart to account for his movements over the course of the day. Ewart mumbled something about kipping at a mate’s place.

‘Where was that?’

Ewart shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’

‘You
can’t remember
?’

‘Up Stamshaw way. Only had it a couple of months.’

‘Who only had it a couple of months?’

‘Bloke that owns it.’

‘Has he got a name?’

‘Yeah, I expect so.’

‘What is it?’

‘Dunno.’

Faraday could see Yates gazing at the ceiling. He was losing his temper already. Not a good sign.

Dawn Ellis stepped in. She’d obviously sensed it too, and she took a different line, treating Ewart with cold indifference.

‘Why weren’t you staying at your own place, Mr Ewart?’

‘I was pissed.’

‘Too pissed to get a cab back?’

‘No money. Skint, wasn’t I?’

Ewart began a rambling account of people he had to catch up with, people who owed him money, people he could never find. Come the middle of the afternoon, knackered, he’d decided to go home for a kip.

‘And then what?’

‘I got back there. I told you, I wanted to get my head down. Then some geezer started knocking on the door. Wouldn’t go away.’

‘Who did you think he was?’

‘Could have been anyone. How the fuck was I supposed to know?’

Ellis nodded. For obvious reasons, neither she nor Suttle had announced themselves. In retrospect, this might have been a mistake.

‘Why didn’t you answer the door?’

‘Because you don’t, do you? Not round where I live. There’s all kinds of low life.’

‘You’re suggesting these people might want to do you harm?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

For the first time his head came up and Faraday had a glimpse of the defence he was going to run. Obvious, he thought. But still shrewd.

‘There’s people out there I don’t really want to see.’

‘Why not?’

‘Loads of reasons. Money, mostly.’

‘You mean debts?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What kind of debts?’

‘For stuff I’ve sold, like.’

‘Stuff?’

‘Drugs. Blow. Speed. These people can be crazy. You don’t want to fuck with them. Tear your head off as soon as look at you. Just think about it, yeah? I get some bloke banging at the door, next thing I know he’s kicking it in. What would you do?’

‘So what happened?’

‘I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and got out the back.’

‘Did you turn the gas on first?’

‘I … ’ He hesitated, looked away.

‘Did you?’

‘Yeah, I did.’

‘Why?’

‘Because … like I said … anything to put these animals off.’

‘And the knife?’

‘Same thing. These blokes can be a nightmare, really heavy. They come after you. And he did. Scared me shitless, if you really want to know. Over the wall I was, and away. Yeah?’ He looked to his solicitor for confirmation, for approval of the sensible steps he’d taken. Michelle was making notes.

‘You were in the next-door garden,’ Ellis prompted. ‘What happened next?’

Ewart faltered a moment, ducked his head. Then he described Suttle appearing at the top of the wall. Like he’d said, the geezer was coming after him.

‘I panicked,’ he said. ‘Tell you the truth I hadn’t a fucking clue what to do. The door was open. There was an old dear in there, an old lady … ’

‘And?’

‘I grabbed her. I didn’t know what I was doing. Like I said, I was bricking it. All I had was the old lady and the knife. Bloke could have done anything.’

Faraday, watching, shook his head. At this rate, they’d be awarding Ewart a medal for gallantry.

Ellis pointed out that Suttle had identified himself as a policeman.