’ He raised his glass. ‘Good to know you’re still with us.’
He wanted a proper account of what had happened. The way he’d heard it, Winter had looked death in the face. There’d been talk of cancer and all kinds of diagnostic bollocks, and some exotic operation that probably cost a fortune. Whatever the real story it must have worked because here he was, Jake Tarrant’s favourite detective, fit as a butcher’s dog. One DC, he said, had been running a book on Winter’s chances of survival and Tarrant had corpsed when he’d heard the odds.
‘What were they?’ Winter was intrigued.
‘Three to one.’
‘On me dying?’
‘Other way round. Most of the blokes didn’t fancy death’s chances.’ Tarrant cackled with laughter. ‘Me? I had a tenner. Pillock still owes me.’ He leaned forward over the table. ‘So talk me through it. Pretend I know nothing.’
Winter did his bidding. He was still trying to do justice to the crippling headaches that began it all when Tarrant interrupted again. ‘There was some bird involved, wasn’t there? Amazingly tasty piece? Funny name?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘Maddox.’
‘Real looker? On the game in some fancy knocking shop down Old Portsmouth? Am I right?’
‘You are, son. You are.’
‘So what happened there, then? How come she fell for a fat bastard like you?’
‘Class attracts class.’ It was a question Winter had heard a thousand times. ‘You wouldn’t know it, but it’s true.’ He returned to his story, described the visits to the consultant up at the hospital, the CT scans and finally the news that a tumour was nesting in his brain. ‘This size … ’ He cupped his hand. ‘Saw it myself on the screen. Big as a tennis ball. No wonder the codeine didn’t touch it.’
The consultant had begun the search for a neurosurgeon. The operation would be complicated by the fact that the tumour had come through the sinus and was now growing on the nearby vein. Getting rid of it risked cutting the blood vessel.
‘That’s a litre of blood a minute.’ Winter nodded. ‘I remember writing it down. Anything goes wrong, they’ve got five minutes to sort you out before you’re running on empty. Encouraging, eh?’
Tarrant nodded. He wanted to know where the story went next, more details, and Winter realised how easy it was to forget what this fresh-faced mortuary technician did for a living. He must have looked inside a thousand skulls, Winter thought. None of this would be remotely surprising.
He voiced the thought but Tarrant shook his head. The neurobod had been right. Unusual condition. Tricky bit of plumbing. Who’d been silly enough to pick up the challenge?
‘American bloke. Phoenix, Arizona. Maddox did the legwork, bless her. Found him through a blog on the Internet. Another English guy who’d had the same problem.’
‘I was right then. Must have cost a fortune.’
‘It did.’
‘How much?’
‘Ninety-five thousand dollars. Plus another seven for fares and whatnot. Call it sixty grand in real money.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah?’ Winter reached for his drink. ‘You think I had a choice?’
‘No, but -’ Tarrant shrugged. ‘- That’s a mortgage job. How many blokes do you know have got sixty grand to spare?’
‘Doesn’t matter, son. Situation like that, you’re up against the wall. Some days, tell you the truth, I would have jacked it in. One morning I even asked Maddox to put a fucking pillow on my head. Yeah -’ he nodded ‘- that bad. Other days, though, the drugs they give you do a good job. She’d drive me round, Maddox. We’d go places, just waiting for this American bloke to get back to us with a decision, and you’d stop, maybe down the coast somewhere, West Sussex, no one around, and the sun would be setting, and you’d get out of the car, right old state, wobbly as fuck, but then you’d smell the air, maybe even take your socks off and go for a little paddle, sand between your toes, the water not at
He wanted a proper account of what had happened. The way he’d heard it, Winter had looked death in the face. There’d been talk of cancer and all kinds of diagnostic bollocks, and some exotic operation that probably cost a fortune. Whatever the real story it must have worked because here he was, Jake Tarrant’s favourite detective, fit as a butcher’s dog. One DC, he said, had been running a book on Winter’s chances of survival and Tarrant had corpsed when he’d heard the odds.
‘What were they?’ Winter was intrigued.
‘Three to one.’
‘On me dying?’
‘Other way round. Most of the blokes didn’t fancy death’s chances.’ Tarrant cackled with laughter. ‘Me? I had a tenner. Pillock still owes me.’ He leaned forward over the table. ‘So talk me through it. Pretend I know nothing.’
Winter did his bidding. He was still trying to do justice to the crippling headaches that began it all when Tarrant interrupted again. ‘There was some bird involved, wasn’t there? Amazingly tasty piece? Funny name?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘Maddox.’
‘Real looker? On the game in some fancy knocking shop down Old Portsmouth? Am I right?’
‘You are, son. You are.’
‘So what happened there, then? How come she fell for a fat bastard like you?’
‘Class attracts class.’ It was a question Winter had heard a thousand times. ‘You wouldn’t know it, but it’s true.’ He returned to his story, described the visits to the consultant up at the hospital, the CT scans and finally the news that a tumour was nesting in his brain. ‘This size … ’ He cupped his hand. ‘Saw it myself on the screen. Big as a tennis ball. No wonder the codeine didn’t touch it.’
The consultant had begun the search for a neurosurgeon. The operation would be complicated by the fact that the tumour had come through the sinus and was now growing on the nearby vein. Getting rid of it risked cutting the blood vessel.
‘That’s a litre of blood a minute.’ Winter nodded. ‘I remember writing it down. Anything goes wrong, they’ve got five minutes to sort you out before you’re running on empty. Encouraging, eh?’
Tarrant nodded. He wanted to know where the story went next, more details, and Winter realised how easy it was to forget what this fresh-faced mortuary technician did for a living. He must have looked inside a thousand skulls, Winter thought. None of this would be remotely surprising.
He voiced the thought but Tarrant shook his head. The neurobod had been right. Unusual condition. Tricky bit of plumbing. Who’d been silly enough to pick up the challenge?
‘American bloke. Phoenix, Arizona. Maddox did the legwork, bless her. Found him through a blog on the Internet. Another English guy who’d had the same problem.’
‘I was right then. Must have cost a fortune.’
‘It did.’
‘How much?’
‘Ninety-five thousand dollars. Plus another seven for fares and whatnot. Call it sixty grand in real money.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah?’ Winter reached for his drink. ‘You think I had a choice?’
‘No, but -’ Tarrant shrugged. ‘- That’s a mortgage job. How many blokes do you know have got sixty grand to spare?’
‘Doesn’t matter, son. Situation like that, you’re up against the wall. Some days, tell you the truth, I would have jacked it in. One morning I even asked Maddox to put a fucking pillow on my head. Yeah -’ he nodded ‘- that bad. Other days, though, the drugs they give you do a good job. She’d drive me round, Maddox. We’d go places, just waiting for this American bloke to get back to us with a decision, and you’d stop, maybe down the coast somewhere, West Sussex, no one around, and the sun would be setting, and you’d get out of the car, right old state, wobbly as fuck, but then you’d smell the air, maybe even take your socks off and go for a little paddle, sand between your toes, the water not at
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