overlooking the sea, Winter is dropped outside a half-finished bar in a housing development still under construction. It’s late afternoon but still very hot. There’s no one around. Bazza gives him a holdall. Inside, in high-denomination notes, is
£
25,000. The money belongs to Westie, Bazza says. Make sure he counts it.
Winter remembers the cloud of dust as the van takes Bazza and Tommy Peters and couple of other guys away. He walks into the bar. The place smells of cement dust. Nothing’s finished. He takes a seat at a table and waits. After a while an old man appears and gives him a drink. Later still Westie turns up. He’s brought his girlfriend. She’s German, very pretty, nice to talk to. Her name is Renata. She’s some kind of artist. Westie is still counting the notes when Tommy Peters reappears. He’s carrying a gun. He shoots Westie twice, both times in the head.
In the dream Winter is inches away from Westie when Peters pulls the trigger. He can feel the warm spray of blood. It’s all over his face, his hands, his shirt, everywhere. The girl is on her knees, trying to help Westie. She looks up. She sees the gun levelled at her own head. She’s pleading for her life. Winter can taste his own shock, his own fear, the terrible realisation that he doesn’t belong here, that he should never have been any part of this slaughter.
He turns to Peters, tells him to put the gun down, tells him to spare the girl. Peters gives him a look, eases him out of the line of fire, moistens his lips, half-closes one eye. Winter looks at the girl. He wants to say sorry. He wants to be forgiven. But he knows that will never be possible. Of Bazza, needless to say, there is no sign.
Winter woke with a tiny gasp. After a moment or two, totally lost, he realised he was trembling. Then he recognised the shape of his bedroom window in the throw of light from the promenade below and dimly made out the silhouette of the stuffed leopard at the foot of the bed. Bathed in sweat, still trembling, he reached out for the comfort of Misty. He wanted to wake her. He wanted to tell her about the dream. But there was no one there.
Chapter six
PORTSMOUTH: SATURDAY, 15 AUGUST 2009
For the first time for months Suttle slept in. Normally, to keep the peace, he was first up for the baby. This morning, a Saturday, it was Lizzie who slipped out of bed at the first tiny cries from the baby’s room next door. Making his way downstairs, hours later, he found Lizzie dribbling feed into the goldfish bowl while Grace, strapped in her rocker in front of the TV, tried to make sense of the morning cartoons.
‘You’re a star,’ he mumbled, giving her a kiss.
‘Your boss phoned.’
‘Parsons?’
‘Yeah. She wants you to give her a ring.’ She looked at him a moment, then gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Enjoy.’
Parsons was at home. She was about to descend on Sainsbury’s but first she needed an update on Operation
Castor
. She was having lunch with the Head of CID and it seemed Det Chief Supt Willard wanted to be absolutely sure.
‘About what?’
‘Us. And Faraday.’
‘I’m not with you, boss.’ Suttle was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘The guy committed suicide.’
‘We’re sure about that?’
‘Positive. I talked to D/I Hayder last night.’
‘No evidence of …’ she paused ‘… negligence?’
‘By who?’
‘Us.’
Suttle was looking at Lizzie. Good journalists listen to everything, and she was one of the best. He bent to the phone again.
‘We gave him support, boss. I understand we offered him a job. What else could we do?’
‘Nothing. You’re right. I’ll tell Mr Willard. Anything else I should know?’
‘Yeah, boss. Winter.’
‘What about him?’
‘We had a long chat last night.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘What time are you seeing Mr Willard?’
It was never Suttle’s intention to invite himself to lunch, but when the return call came fifteen minutes later it seemed that Willard had
£
25,000. The money belongs to Westie, Bazza says. Make sure he counts it.
Winter remembers the cloud of dust as the van takes Bazza and Tommy Peters and couple of other guys away. He walks into the bar. The place smells of cement dust. Nothing’s finished. He takes a seat at a table and waits. After a while an old man appears and gives him a drink. Later still Westie turns up. He’s brought his girlfriend. She’s German, very pretty, nice to talk to. Her name is Renata. She’s some kind of artist. Westie is still counting the notes when Tommy Peters reappears. He’s carrying a gun. He shoots Westie twice, both times in the head.
In the dream Winter is inches away from Westie when Peters pulls the trigger. He can feel the warm spray of blood. It’s all over his face, his hands, his shirt, everywhere. The girl is on her knees, trying to help Westie. She looks up. She sees the gun levelled at her own head. She’s pleading for her life. Winter can taste his own shock, his own fear, the terrible realisation that he doesn’t belong here, that he should never have been any part of this slaughter.
He turns to Peters, tells him to put the gun down, tells him to spare the girl. Peters gives him a look, eases him out of the line of fire, moistens his lips, half-closes one eye. Winter looks at the girl. He wants to say sorry. He wants to be forgiven. But he knows that will never be possible. Of Bazza, needless to say, there is no sign.
Winter woke with a tiny gasp. After a moment or two, totally lost, he realised he was trembling. Then he recognised the shape of his bedroom window in the throw of light from the promenade below and dimly made out the silhouette of the stuffed leopard at the foot of the bed. Bathed in sweat, still trembling, he reached out for the comfort of Misty. He wanted to wake her. He wanted to tell her about the dream. But there was no one there.
Chapter six
PORTSMOUTH: SATURDAY, 15 AUGUST 2009
For the first time for months Suttle slept in. Normally, to keep the peace, he was first up for the baby. This morning, a Saturday, it was Lizzie who slipped out of bed at the first tiny cries from the baby’s room next door. Making his way downstairs, hours later, he found Lizzie dribbling feed into the goldfish bowl while Grace, strapped in her rocker in front of the TV, tried to make sense of the morning cartoons.
‘You’re a star,’ he mumbled, giving her a kiss.
‘Your boss phoned.’
‘Parsons?’
‘Yeah. She wants you to give her a ring.’ She looked at him a moment, then gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Enjoy.’
Parsons was at home. She was about to descend on Sainsbury’s but first she needed an update on Operation
Castor
. She was having lunch with the Head of CID and it seemed Det Chief Supt Willard wanted to be absolutely sure.
‘About what?’
‘Us. And Faraday.’
‘I’m not with you, boss.’ Suttle was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘The guy committed suicide.’
‘We’re sure about that?’
‘Positive. I talked to D/I Hayder last night.’
‘No evidence of …’ she paused ‘… negligence?’
‘By who?’
‘Us.’
Suttle was looking at Lizzie. Good journalists listen to everything, and she was one of the best. He bent to the phone again.
‘We gave him support, boss. I understand we offered him a job. What else could we do?’
‘Nothing. You’re right. I’ll tell Mr Willard. Anything else I should know?’
‘Yeah, boss. Winter.’
‘What about him?’
‘We had a long chat last night.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘What time are you seeing Mr Willard?’
It was never Suttle’s intention to invite himself to lunch, but when the return call came fifteen minutes later it seemed that Willard had
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