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  ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe she’s made enough money. Maybe there’s someone else in her life. A girl does what she has to do. That’s fine by me.’

  Suttle asked about the spelling of the name and wrote it down. Kaija.

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘Luik. It means swan.’

  She helped with the spelling again.

  ‘And is that her real name?’

  ‘As far as I know –’ she shrugged ‘– yes.’

  ‘But you’d have seen her passport, surely?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  ‘What about an address?’

  ‘In Estonia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘So how did you contact her in the first place?’

  ‘She came to me. I run a successful business. It’s called word of mouth.’

  ‘Do you run the business from here? Or do you have premises somewhere else?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘And you really don’t have a home address for the girl?’

  She looked down at Suttle for a long moment, then shook her head.

  ‘You guys kill me. Have you any idea what it’s like to make a living? Try and keep your head above water? OK, so here’s a little secret. These days business has never been tougher. Never. And all this stuff isn’t making it any easier.’

  ‘Four people died,’ Suttle said again. ‘In my business that’s not insignificant.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ The watch again. ‘But if you’ll excuse me …’

  She waited for Suttle to get up. He didn’t move.

  ‘We need you to account for your movements on Saturday night,’ he said.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, please. Unless you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Can I say no?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I arrest you and we continue the conversation at the police station.’

  ‘Arrest me for what?’

  ‘Obstructing the course of justice.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘OK.’ She frowned. ‘Saturday night I was over at a get-together in Southampton. It was a fund-raising thing. For a Down’s syndrome charity. I got the late hydrofoil back and then I went to bed.’

  She gave Suttle the details of the function. A hotel on the outskirts of Southampton. The name of the woman who’d organised the whole thing. She hadn’t got a number but she knew the woman’s address.

  ‘She’s in the book. Give her a ring. Send a copper round. She loves men in uniform.’

  Suttle ignored the dig. He wanted to know where Kaija Luik had been living on the Isle of Wight.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we need to make enquiries.’

  ‘About Johnny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sadler shrugged, then left the room. Suttle heard a door open down the hall and there came the low murmur of conversation. A man’s voice, indistinct. Minutes later Sadler was back beside the sofa. She’d scribbled down an address. It was in Cowes.

  ‘You’ve got a phone number for Kaija? Email?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No mobile number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘That’s your choice.’ She shrugged.

  ‘So when did she go? Kaija?’

  ‘The weekend, I think. Sunday maybe.’

  ‘Which airline?’

  ‘No idea. She might have gone by coach. She made her own arrangements.’

  Suttle turned to the Cowes address. 13a Darcy Road.

  ‘What was the set-up there?’

  ‘It’s a flat.’

  ‘Was she sharing it? Was there someone else there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’m not her keeper.’

  ‘Really?’

  Suttle held her gaze for a second or two.

  ‘These girls advertise on the Web, am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll have a photo then. Bound to.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘May we have a copy?’

  ‘Of course.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll have to talk to the bloke who does the website. He took her entry down, but he’ll still have the file. He’s away just now but should be back any day. Is that OK?’

  ‘Sure. Sooner the better though, eh?’

  Suttle got to his feet. He thanked Sadler for her time and gave her a card with contact details. She could send Kaija’s photo by email.

  Sadler barely glanced at the card. Suttle stepped towards the front door. On the right was a bathroom. The door next to the bathroom was shut.

  Suttle paused outside it. Then turned back to Sadler.

  ‘One last question …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Why did you bother answering the entryphone?’

  ‘I thought you were someone else.’ She smiled at last. ‘Got that wrong, didn’t I?’

  According to Marie, Bazza was planning to spend the afternoon at the house. He had a speech he needed to sort out for a function in the evening. The local Rotarians, intrigued by what they’d read in the Guardian, had invited him at short notice after their scheduled speaker had gone down with flu.

  Winter drove across to the house. Mackenzie had yet to return from the hotel but Stu Norcliffe was in the kitchen, talking to Marie. Winter had a key. When he appeared at the kitchen door, Marie told Stu to go through the story again.

  ‘Remember Kieron O’Dwyer?’ Winter nodded. How could he forget? ‘I just got a call from Henrik. The boy’s in hospital. Double fracture of the jaw. Here and here.’ Stu tapped both sides of his face. ‘Apparently the lad’s in a bit of a state. He’s had one operation already to wire the jaw up. He’s due another one this afternoon.’

  ‘No point asking how it happened, I suppose?’

  ‘None. He’s not saying a word.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, in that state. How about a bit of paper and a pencil? Nothing complicated. Just the easy words.’

  Marie wasn’t amused. According to Stu, it would be weeks before the lad could even eat properly.

  ‘So, are we sorry for young Kieron?’ Winter was frowning. ‘He’s aggression on a stick, that boy. Sooner or later someone was bound to give him a slapping. Eh, Stu?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Kieron lives with his auntie. She came back last night to find him semi-conscious on the living-room floor. According to the guy who did the first operation, there were no other facial injuries. Just the two blows to the jaw. Bang bang. He thinks that’s unusual.’

  Winter nodded. Stu was right. Most fights serious enough to put a bloke in hospital were hopelessly messy, one drunk flailing at another, blood everywhere. This one sounded very different. The application of carefully measured violence. Precise, almost clinical.

  ‘So what are we saying? You think Baz had anything to do with it?’

  ‘Baz?’ Stu looked shocked.

  ‘You told me he was after the boy’s address. I don’t suppose he sent him a letter.’

  ‘You’re telling me …?’

  ‘No, Stu, I’m just asking, that’s all.’ He turned to put the same question to Marie but she’d left the room.

  Mackenzie returned shortly afterwards. A call from Leo Kinder had put him on standby for a Newsnight interview. They had a TV crew in the area and might have time to pay a visit before returning to London. According to Kinder, this could be the breakthrough.

  ‘Again?’ Winter followed him into the den. He hadn’t prepared a speech, he wasn’t even angry. All he wanted to know was where he stood.

  ‘I’m not with you, mush.’

  Mackenzie was scrolling through his emails. One caught his eye.

  ‘Listen to this,’ he said gleefully. ‘Couldn’t believe all that bollox about discipline and respect and cleaning up Pompey. Is this the same B
azza gave me a toeing back of Waterloo? That day we pissed all over you lot at the Den?’ He looked up. ‘Remember Fergal?’

  ‘No, Baz.’

  ‘Millwall face. Hard as you like. Really good bloke. What the fuck’s he doing reading the Guardian?’

  ‘I don’t know, Baz. Mail him back. Ask him.’

  Too late. Bazza’s fingers were already moving over the keyboard. Then he stopped, peering at the screen again.

  ‘Here,’ he said, gesturing Winter closer. ‘Look at this.’

  ‘Look at what, Baz?’

  ‘This – here. Cleaning up Pompey. C-U-P. Geddit?’

  Winter was lost. He had no idea where Mackenzie was going next and in truth he wasn’t very interested.

  Bazza was already reaching for the phone. For Winter’s benefit, he hit the hands-free button. The call answered on the second ring.

  ‘Baz?’ Kinder, Winter thought. Responding like a puppy to his master’s voice.

  Mackenzie was telling him about the email, and about the phrase buried in the middle. C-U-P. Cleaning up Pompey.

  ‘That’s it, Leo. That’s the one. That’s what we’ve been looking for. A badge, a moniker, a handle. Are you up for the Cup? Maybe a poster like those famous ones in the First World War. The guy with the mustache. The guy that wanted you to sign up.’

  ‘Kitchener,’ Winter said drily.

  ‘That’s it, that’s him, Kitchener. Paulie here thinks it’s a blinding idea, don’t you, mush? Me on the poster. Me pointing. Are you up for the Cup? We print hundreds of the fuckers, thousands of them, stick ’em up all over town. Clean up Pompey. Has to work, doesn’t it? A line like that?’

  ‘Brilliant, Baz. I’ll get back to you.’ If Kinder was underwhelmed it didn’t show.

  ‘When, mush?’

  ‘Soon as. I’m in a meeting.’

  ‘Yeah? Fuck off then.’ He barked with laughter and ended the call, returning to the rest of his emails. Winter noticed one from billy. angel marked High Priority. Mackenzie skipped over it. Finally, after another chortle over a cleverly Photoshopped image that showed Ronaldo as a transvestite, he settled back in his chair.

  ‘Rotary fucking Club, mush?’ He reached for a pad and a pen. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘I went to see Leyman this morning.’

  ‘Yeah? And what did he have to say for himself?’

  Bazza’s grin widened. Winter had been waiting for this moment for most of the day.

  ‘He said you stashed two million quid’s worth of toot over on the island just in case. He said you’d parked it for a rainy day. He also told me who was looking after it. Johnny Holman.’

  Mackenzie’s grin had frozen. If there was one thing he hated in life, it was being taken by surprise. He’d put a call through to Leyman last night, warned him off, shut the fat fucker up. Now this.

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘No, he’s not. Leyman doesn’t do lying. That’s his charm.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  ‘Every word. And you know why? Because it’s not just him.’

  ‘So who else is peddling this shit?’

  Winter shook his head. No more clues. No more names. Just a word or two about what might happen next.

  ‘I’ve worked my bollocks off for you, Baz. I’ve got no complaints. You pay me OK, it’s been a lot of fun.’

  ‘Been?’

  ‘Been.’ Winter nodded. ‘I’m looking at this from your point of view, Baz. Why waste your money on someone like me when you could get some other monkey for half the price? There are blokes in this town that would do anything to get on your payroll. They wouldn’t mind in the least if you dicked them around, pulled their strings, kept them out of the loop half the time. In fact they’d probably think it went with the territory. Work for Bazza Mackenzie. Sit in the fucking dark and get yourself shat on. It’s not clever, Baz. It’s not even funny. To tell you the truth, I’m disappointed. I thought you were better than this.’

  He got up. He’d said it. He was off. The last time he’d felt this good was the day he’d said something very similar to Detective Chief Superintendent Willard. Stuff your job.

  Mackenzie stared at him.

  ‘You’re joking.’ He leaned forward and patted the empty chair. ‘Sit down, mush. You’re upset. I’ve been working you too hard. You’ve got this stuff all out of proportion.’

  ‘No, Baz. That’s what you said before. And the time before that. It happens I believed you. But hey –’ he shot Mackenzie a smile ‘– sometimes in life you get these things wrong.’

  Mackenzie wasn’t having it. He was at the door before Winter, his back pressed against it, no way out. Winter looked down at him.

  ‘Are you going to open that door?’

  ‘No, mush, I’m not. Not before you let me have my little say.’

  ‘But why should I do that? Given what you never tell me?’

  ‘Because you should. Because you must. Because this stuff’s about you too.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘The toot. Johnny. Everything. If you don’t give me a hearing, you’ll regret it, mush. I’m telling you now.’

  Mackenzie took a tiny step forward, testing Winter. Then another. Then a third before he moved sideways, gesturing at the door. His confidence had returned. Help yourself. Be my guest.

  Winter studied him for a while, then shook his head.

  ‘I’ve had enough, Baz.’ He reached for the door handle. ‘Say goodbye to Marie for me, eh?’

  Chapter Eleven

  WEDNESDAY, 11 FEBRUARY 2009. 18.45

  Faraday was doing his best to concentrate on Lou Sadler. Patsy Lowe sat in his office beside Suttle. The door was closed.

  ‘Tell me again, Jimmy.’

  Suttle described their encounter with Sadler. Faraday wasn’t impressed.

  ‘So she’s on the game, you catch her at it – or nearly at it – and in a polite kind of way she tells you to fuck off. That’s standard MO, isn’t it? Someone like her? You don’t have to be a criminal to hate the likes of us.’

  ‘That’s not the point, boss. She lied. I’ve checked again with the D/S I mentioned.’

  ‘The one on the Vice Squad?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s certain Holman used to blag shags off her. Not her personally but one of the girls she runs. He says Holman used to boast about it.’

  ‘Maybe Holman lives in a dreamworld. A fantasist.’

  ‘Fine. That’s possible. I admit it. But Sadler’s telling us that Holman was a regular punter. He saw lots of the girl. Sadler says he paid his way, but maybe there’s more to it. Maybe he copped freebies as well, like the Vice D/S says. So maybe there’s some kind of relationship.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  Faraday was trying to keep up. Suttle’s impatience, he thought, was beginning to show.

  ‘You’re suggesting Holman’s with this tom of his? What’s her name again?’

  ‘Kaija Luik.’

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Sadler says she’s gone home. She’s Estonian.’

  ‘We’ve got an address?’

  ‘No. Only a name.’ Suttle had typed it out. He slid it across the desk. Faraday glanced at it.

  ‘Luik? You think it’s a common name?’

  ‘Dunno, boss.’

  ‘Have you got a photo?’

  ‘Not yet. Sadler says she’ll ping one over.’

  ‘You need to action this. Talk to Interplod.’

  ‘Done, boss.’ Giving Interpol nothing more than a name, with the promise of a photo to follow, was a big ask. They’d take at least a week to come up with any kind of result. Assuming, of course, that Luik had really gone home.

  ‘What about here? Where was she living?’

  Suttle gave him the address in Cowes. He and Lowe had called in on the way back to Ryde. The address was the lower half of an end-of-terrace property near the chain ferry across to East Cowes. There’d been no response to their knocks at the front door and a glance throug
h the front window suggested the place was empty.

  ‘Upstairs?’

  ‘No one in. I’ll check the Land Registry next. See who owns it.’

  ‘Neighbours?’

  ‘One old couple next door. Pretty clueless, to be frank. Keep themselves to themselves. We need to check at some more addresses once we’ve got a photo.’

  Faraday nodded, then his eyes returned to the slip of paper Suttle had given him. Kaija Luik. Someone else no one could find.

  ‘Chase the photo,’ he said.

  Suttle took this as a gesture of dismissal. He and Lowe left the office. Faraday reached for the Policy Book and glanced up at the clock on the wall. In a quarter of an hour he was due to conference with Meg Stanley. She’d sent her apologies earlier, pleading to be excused from the 6 p.m. squad meeting on the grounds that the SOC operation was nearly at an end. With luck she would present their preliminary findings before close of play.

  Faraday had emailed her back, saying no problem. In the event, he thought, she’d missed nothing. With the possible exception of Kaija Luik, Gosling appeared to have hit a brick wall. No Johnny Holman. No shotguns. No sign of Robbie Gifford’s car. Nothing definite from the Pompey underworld beyond vague rumours of a buried stash of cocaine. These mutterings, almost inevitably, had been linked to Mackenzie, partly because he had the means to bankroll a consignment of that size and partly because it was a handy fit for the colourful urban legend that was Pompey’s favourite gangster.

  From Faraday’s point of view the latter was especially troubling, not least because Parsons and Willard seemed all too eager to hitch their horses to the get-Mackenzie bandwagon. In the end of course they might well be proved right, but in the meantime it was Faraday’s job to keep an open mind on every line of enquiry until the evidence told him otherwise.

  He opened the Policy Book and began to transcribe the scribbled notes he’d made during the day. In this way he could keep a real-time check on the investigation as it developed, noting the decisions he’d made and the reasoning that lay behind them. Months or even years down the line, if Gosling ever made it to court, the Policy Book would protect him against marauding defence barristers in court, eager to exploit the tiniest chink in Gosling’s armour. A tiny procedural slip here, a wrongly attested statement there, and the entire case could fall apart. Years ago, as a D/C and then a D/S, he’d seen it happen on countless occasions. You spent months closing the investigative net around the prime suspects. You spent week after week trying to make the file lawyer-proof. And then, for the silliest reason, you fucked up.