One Under (35 page)

Was it really his fault? He thought not. He’d never, for a second, considered throwing in his lot with the likes of Bazza Mackenzie and it hurt him to think that someone up the hierarchy had gone to the trouble of tasking the surveillance boys to keep an eye on him. That, to be frank, was way out of order, and he was still toying with a letter to Willard to nail the bastard who’d taken a step like that. Simple logic, he told himself, would tell anyone with half a brain that getting into bed with Mackenzie was the shortest cut to getting well and truly fucked. He’d seen it happen to countless people in the city. They sniffed the money, spread their legs, and Bazza was only too happy to help himself. But simple logic clearly wasn’t enough. Someone had laid treason at Winter’s door, and the charge - or the whisper - appeared to have stuck.

So what might he expect in the days to come? That, in essence, was the issue. After the operation in Phoenix, with Maddox still attending to his every need, Winter had kidded himself that close acquaintance with death changed a man, changed his perspectives, his needs, his priorities. But now, faced so abruptly with the loss of the job he loved, he knew that wasn’t true. He was still, for better or worse, a detective. He teased out facts. He drew a series of lines between them. He punted his judgement on this pattern or that. And when he knew the bet was safe, the odds stacked overwhelmingly in his favour, he mustered his chips and returned to the table, and when his number came up, as it usually did, there was nothing sweeter than the knowledge of yet more credit in the account he kept against rainy days like this. That was what fuelled him. That was what made him get up in the morning. Take it away, and he wasn’t at all sure there’d be anything left.

He got to his feet and peered into the warm darkness, wondering whether to risk a late call to Faraday. He’d doubtless be home by now, tucked up in that house of his beside the water. There was just a little part of Winter that envied the DI’s composure, the breadth of his interests outside the job, the way he seemed so armour-clad. He knew, of course, that Faraday was no stranger to life’s sterner challenges. Bringing up a deaf-mute kid, essentially on your own, couldn’t have been easy. Yet there was a steadiness about the man, a seeming peace of mind that Winter - at times like this - knew he could have done with. Winter thrived on chaos, on mischief, on the splash you made when you lobbed a big, fat rock into the very middle of life’s pond. Faraday, on the other hand, preferred silence and a sense of order. With a bird book and a decent pair of binos, thought Winter despairingly, he’d never even dream of
looking
for the rock.

He stepped in from the balcony and wandered through to the bathroom. Minutes later, as he soaped his face, he heard the two-tone trill of his new mobile.

‘It’s Jake,’ said the voice. ‘We’d like you to come round.’

 

Faraday was home late, gone eleven. Upstairs, in his study, he checked his e-mails before turning in. One of them had come from Gabrielle. Faraday had sent her a selection of his own shots from Thailand, with a couple of extras he’d taken locally, and she’d now replied in kind. Chartres, she pointed out, had one of the finest cathedrals in Europe, and she’d attached a series of photos to prove it.

Faraday gazed at the message, wondering what he’d find. The first shots were undeniably impressive, twin spires soaring above the surrounding rooflines, but what took Faraday’s eye were the later images Gabrielle had captured inside. He scrolled slowly through them, photo after photo dominated by the glow of the stained-glass windows. Gabrielle had written of the feelings they inspired in her. They were medieval, she said. They celebrated the triumph of truth over darkness, of hope over bewilderment, of the spirit of the stonemasons and carpenters and artists who had devoted their lives to this extraordinary building.

These thoughts were in French, and even with the aid of a dictionary, it took Faraday a while to properly make sense of them. Satisfied with his translation, he took a second look at the photos, concentrating on the windows. She was right. The stained glass had the startling brilliance of fireworks against the night sky. They were, in the exact sense of the word, luminous.

He gazed at one in particular. Square in shape, it pictured Christ on the cross, his pale body pierced by a spear, and he found himself thinking of the garden at Gethsemane, and Judas’ soft kiss, and what Duley could possibly have meant by entwining this age-old story of betrayal with the woman he’d so successfully caught in the opening pages of his crime novel. Was this woman of his real? Had she walked into Duley’s life they way she’d walked into the meeting that freezing night? Had he too been betrayed?

Faraday didn’t know but the bursting radiance of the stained glass fascinated him, and the longer he looked, the more determined he was to see them for real. In one sense, he thought, the cathedral itself was no more than a device for framing these images. Without them, the building would be empty, an orchestra without a score. He tried to put this into French but abandoned the attempt when he realised that even in English he was struggling to voice what he really meant. Instead, remembering the standing invitation to pay her a visit, he decided to say yes.

‘
Merci beaucoup de tes photos, surtout les vitrails
,’ he tapped. ‘
Peut-être, il faut que je te visite pour vraiment les apprécier sur place
.’

 

The lights were on in Tarrant’s house when the cab dropped Winter at the end of the cul-de-sac. Jake opened the door to his knock. One glance at his face told Winter that he’d just emerged from a monster row.

‘She’s in the living room,’ he said. ‘I said you ought to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Went down a bomb, that.’

He stood aside as Winter stepped in and went through to the lounge. Rachel was at one end of the sofa, her feet propped on a low coffee table, watching television. At first, she barely acknowledged Winter’s presence. Then, with a snort, she reached for the remote and turned the set off.

‘Jake says we’ll have to give the money back.’

‘What money?’

‘The money from Alan.’

‘Does he?’

‘Yeah, isn’t that right?’ She was staring up at her husband, daring him to disagree.

‘That’s what you told me, Mr W.’ Tarrant was looking acutely uncomfortable. ‘All I did was pass it on.’

‘See?’ It was Rachel again. ‘Well, you’re wrong, Mr Winter. What you don’t know about is the agreement we’ve got.’

‘Agreement?’ This was news to Winter.

‘Yeah. When we get the place in Southsea, Alan’s coming to live with us. That’s the whole point. That’s why he gave us the money to begin with.’

‘Gave? I thought it was a loan.’

‘Yeah, well, loan then. Only it’s huge, the new place - huge compared to this, anyway. Four bedrooms, nice bit of garden. Alan came down to see it with me as soon as it came on the market. He can have one of the bedrooms at the back for now but we can probably go up into the roof, do a proper conversion, so he can have his own little place. The way I see it, the arrangement should work a treat.’

‘You’re telling me you’ve seen Givens? Recently?’

‘No, not for a while, but he’ll be back, I know he will.’

‘Back from where?’

‘God knows.’ She paused. ‘Anything else you want to know?’

Winter nodded. ‘This agreement you’ve got. Is it in writing?’

‘Of course not. Why would we do that?’

‘Because … ’ Winter shrugged. He hadn’t come here for a family row. Neither was he a solicitor.

Rachel was on her feet now. ‘Does that clear it up then? Only it’s late.’

She gave Winter a cold stare, then disappeared into the hall. Seconds later, Winter could hear her footsteps overhead, then came the slam of a door.

Tarrant was still standing by the sofa. He tried to raise a smile but nothing could hide his embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry, Mr W. She made me.’

‘Made you what?’

‘Ring you like that. It was out of order. I apologise.’

Winter patted him on the shoulder, reminded him of the call he’d made himself, only a couple of days ago.

‘Glad to help out, mate.’ He stepped across to the mantelpiece and looked at the photographs tucked beneath the gilt frame of the big mirror. ‘Are these Givens’?’

‘Yeah. He’s taken loads.’

‘They’re all right. You should be pleased.’

‘Rach loves them. She thinks he’s a genius.’

‘And you?’

‘They’re snaps, Mr W. But she’s right, of course she’s right. And kids are only young once, aren’t they?’ He paused, then offered Winter a drink. ‘Beer, Stella, vino, whatever you fancy.’

Winter shook his head.

‘I’ll ring for a cab, son. Heavy day tomorrow.’

Tarrant said there was no need. He’d run Winter back to Gunwharf. Again Winter said no.

‘Why not? It’s no trouble. Honest.’

Winter shook his head. The wife looked as though she might need a bit of TLC, he said. The last thing she wanted was her husband running round half the night again.

‘You’re sure?’ Tarrant sounded disappointed, almost plaintive.

‘Positive.’ Winter was already talking to Aqua. ‘Five minutes, max,’ he said, pocketing his mobile.

They waited in the living room, talking about the kids again, Winter pushing the conversation along. Jake said they were a handful, difficult age, got on Rach’s nerves.

‘Not easy, then?’

‘Not at all, Mr W. You think, you know, to begin with it’s going to be fine, but then kids want everything these days, don’t they? DVDs, music, designer gear, the whole deal. And living here doesn’t help either. There just isn’t the space. Know what I mean?’

‘Of course.’ Winter had caught the growl of the cab as it pulled up outside. ‘It’ll get better though, won’t it? Once you’re down in Southsea?’

He stepped into the hall, aware of Tarrant behind him. ‘Mr W… . ?’ he began.

‘Yeah?’ Winter was reaching for the door handle.

‘It will be OK, won’t it?’

Winter looked at him. The cab was at the kerbside.

‘What’ll be OK?’ he asked at last. ‘The money?’

Tarrant didn’t answer. The cabbie beeped the horn. Winter studied Tarrant a moment longer, then gave him a little pat and stepped into the night.

 

Dawn Ellis had known Winter for years. A while back, when she’d got herself in deep shit with a predatory ex-Met DC, it had been Winter who’d come to her rescue. He was nearly twice her age, and she knew exactly how manipulative he could be, but she was famous in the bar for her stout defence of his working methods. Winter, she explained, lived in a world of his own. You might not understand the language or much like the way he set about things, but his track record - the villains he’d put away - spoke for itself.

Now she wanted to know more about the bank statement.

‘This came in yesterday. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘And we’re talking Jake Tarrant up at St Mary’s? The one and the same?’

‘Spot on.’

‘Has anyone taken this up with him yet?’

‘Me.’

‘And?’

Winter explained about the loan. They were driving north, heading for St Mary’s. At Faraday’s insistence, they were now treating Tarrant as a potential suspect. The DI wanted them to start with Givens’ line manager, an administrator at the hospital, Deborah Percy. She’d be able to provide a picture of Givens’ working day - the people he met, the schedule he kept. Operation
Tartan
had suddenly acquired a new momentum.

‘This could be tricky, couldn’t it?’ Ellis readied herself to overtake a bus, then backed off. ‘Knowing Jake the way we do?’

‘No alternative, love. Every bloke on the squad knows him. If it wasn’t us, it’d be someone else. Exactly the same problem.’

‘But what do you think? About Jake?’

‘I think what you think. I think he’s a good bloke.’

‘That doesn’t help us though. Does it?’

‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘It doesn’t.’

Deborah Percy occupied a busy office in the hospital’s administration block. She was a plump, friendly forty-something. With the phones going non-stop and a constant stream of interruptions, she suggested they found somewhere else to talk. Winter settled for the canteen.

Ellis found a table at the back of the big hall. Percy returned with a laden tray. Winter had given her a quid for a bacon sandwich, and Ellis turned her head as Winter hosed brown sauce onto the glistening rashers. A committed veggie, she loathed the smell of meat.

Percy was talking about Givens, confirming everything Winter had already learned about the man. He’d been quiet, efficient, kept himself to himself. In the eleven months he’d worked at the hospital, he’d never taken a day’s sick leave, and when called upon to fill in for someone he’d never once said no. Which made his sudden disappearance all the more mysterious.

‘What did he do, exactly?’ Ellis had turned her back on Winter.

‘He drove one of the path vans. These are the guys who pick up medical samples around the city. Stuff comes down from the QA, and from GP surgeries. Alan’s job was to take them to the microbiology labs across the road here for analysis.’

‘Did that involve calls at the mortuary?’

‘Yes. We use our mortuary to store bodies after they’ve been PM’d at QA. Samples taken during post-mortem are often sent down with them. Alan would pick them up.’

‘So he’d be a regular caller at the mortuary here?’

‘Of course. In fact Jake Tarrant had become a bit of a mate of his.’

‘You knew that?’

‘Only because Alan once mentioned it. I think he’d got pally with Jake’s wife too. He showed me some snaps he’d taken of the kiddies. He was really proud of them.’

Ellis glanced round at Winter. Winter was mopping up the remains of the brown sauce with his bacon sandwich.