She peered hard at the windowsill, then at the carpet beneath. Sure enough, among all the ingrained crud, she could see tiny fragments of gravel and dirt. She turned away from the window, feeling a sudden chill despite the warmth of the sun. Grace was in her playpen, taking wet bites at her stuffed rabbit. Lizzie stared at her for a long moment then summoned the courage to venture upstairs. Both bedrooms were empty. She came down again, her pulse back under control, wondering what to do. Should she phone Jimmy? Or should she wait until this evening?
She glanced at her watch and decided not to bother him. Mercifully, the bolts on both the front and back doors still worked. With a bit of ingenuity, she might be able to re-fasten the window. Whoever had left the calling card was probably miles away by now. Her eyes strayed to the programme again and despite everything she found herself wondering what on earth lay behind its sudden appearance in this tomb of a house. Pompey, she thought. Never lets you down.
Suttle had decided to nail the photos as soon as he got back to Middlemoor. Apart from the Admin Manager and a lone D/C, the MCIT offices were empty. Suttle closed his door and extracted the mystery number from his wallet. Using his own mobile, he keyed in the digits.
The number rang and rang. Finally, a voice. Gruff Pompey accent. No surprise there.
‘My name’s Suttle. You want to talk to me.’
‘That’s right. We do.’
‘When? Where?’
‘How about this afternoon?’
‘You have to be joking. I’m in fucking Exeter.’
‘So are we, mush.’ The voice was laughing. ‘Bet your life we are.’
Suttle was thinking fast. They’ve been back to the village, he told himself. He’d talked to Lizzie a couple of hours ago. She’d seemed perfectly OK.
‘Listen.’ He bent to the phone again. ‘If anyone lays a finger on my family, they’ll regret it. Are we cool with that? Are you listening?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘So leave it out, yeah?’
The guy was still there. Suttle could hear him. Heavy breather. Probably fat. Probably enormous. Finally he came back on the phone.
‘Pub called the Angel. Opposite Central Station. You know it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Three o’clock. If you’re not there by quarter past, all bets are off.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You don’t want to know, mush.’
The line went dead. Suttle slipped the phone back in his pocket and checked his watch. 14.27. Getting into the city centre and finding somewhere to park would take at least twenty minutes, probably longer. And no way was he going into this without back-up.
In the next office D/C Luke Golding was on the phone. He’d been with Major Crimes less than a month. Suttle barely knew the lad.
He stood over him, tapping his watch. Get off the phone. Like now.
‘Sarge?’ Golding looked startled.
‘There’s a meet we have to get to.’ Suttle was already heading for the door. ‘That’s me and you, son.’
In the car Suttle left the details vague. When Golding asked which bit of Constantine this linked to, Suttle said it was impossible to say. Call it a fishing expedition. Call it any fucking thing. Just do what I say, right?
Golding nodded. He was small and slight but Suttle had listened to a couple of the other guys on the squad and knew the boy could handle himself. In uniform, still a probationer, he’d evidently faced down a bunch of pissed marine recruits in an Exmouth pub. That very definitely took bottle. Good sign.
The traffic, mercifully, was light. Suttle was in the city centre by five to three. There was even a parking space outside the Central Station. He killed the engine and sat in silence for a moment. The Angel was directly across the road. He’d never been in the pub in his life but a big plate-glass window offered a view inside. It was dark, impossible to see further than the tables beside the window.
‘So what now, Sarge?’ Golding had to be back for a meet by four fifteen.
‘You watch my back, OK? I’ll be sitting at one of those tables you can see across the road there in the pub. There’ll be someone with me. If anything kicks off I want you to call for the cavalry. You happy with that?’
‘No sweat.’ He could see the lad warming to the task. Maybe he enjoyed physical violence. Maybe he was a stranger to the strokes the 6.57 could pull.
Suttle got out of the Impreza and crossed the road. The pub was near-empty, a couple of derelicts at the bar, a younger man with a copy of the Independent curled on the sofa beside the brick fireplace. None of them looked remotely Pompey. Suttle asked for a small shandy and took it to the table beside the window. He could see Golding across the road. He was studying his mobile.
Moments later the door opened. Two guys, one fat, one black. Suttle recognised neither of them. The fat guy muttered something Suttle didn’t catch to his mate and dispatched him to the bar before wedging himself into the chair across the table from Suttle. His tiny shaved skull seemed to wobble on the folds of fat at the back of his neck. Baggy jeans and a black leather jacket over a black woollen polo neck.
‘So who’s the kid in the Impreza?’
‘A mate of mine.’
‘He knows about this?’
‘He knows I’m meeting someone heavy.’
‘Too fucking right. Does he know why?’
‘No.’
‘Straight up?’
‘Yeah. There’d be no point telling him. Pompey’s a mystery to these people.’
‘You’re right, mush. Wrong fucking league, eh? Wrong fucking end of the country. What’s it like then? Life in the sticks?’
Suttle didn’t answer. He hadn’t any interest in conversation. He was simply here to deliver a message.
The black guy was back with the drinks. Two pints of Stella and a packet of cheese and onion. Suttle was looking at the fat guy.
‘You’ve got a name?’ he asked.
‘Of course I’ve got a fucking name.’
‘What is it?’
‘None of your business. If it helps you can call me Jonno.’
‘OK, Jonno, so why don’t you say your piece? What exactly do you want from me?’
‘You know what we want.’
‘All I know is you’ve been sniffing around my missus. Nice pix, by the way.’
Jonno had caught sight of the crisps. He was staring at the black guy.
‘I said salt and vinegar, didn’t I? Can’t you fucking read?’
‘They’ve run out.’
‘Run out?’ His eyes revolved. ‘Fucking carrot crunchers.’ He opened the packet and emptied the crisps across the table. ‘Help yourself, mush. Lunch on us, eh?’ He gave the crisps a poke. The back of his right hand carried an eagle tat. On his left, a name framed in an elaborate scroll. Even upside down Suttle had no difficulty deciphering it.
‘He lives down this way.’ Suttle nodded at the tat. ‘Not many people know that.’
‘Who?’
‘David James.’
‘Know him, do you?’
‘I’ve met him a couple of times, yeah. He’s big on the charity front. Nice bloke.’
David James had been a legend at Fratton Park, a commanding goalie with a huge Afro and a string of England caps.
Jonno was impressed.
‘You talk to him at all?’
‘Of course.’
‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘You’re starting to sound half human.’
He pushed the crisps towards Suttle. He wanted be out of this khazi of a city and back on the road east as soon as possible. So why didn’t Suttle do himself a favour and help him out?
‘How?’
‘You know how. That cunt Winter was totally out of order. You think we can let something like that go? In case you don’t remember, Mr Filth, your guys shot the Man dead. That’s life, mush. That’s what happens. Some tosser pulls the trigger and Bazza Mac’s history. You’ll be glad to know we don’t have a problem with that. The arsehole with the shooter’s doing a job. But what we don’t put up with is a fucking two-timing lowlife grass like Winter. Without him, the arsehole with the shooter would never have been anywhere near Bazza Mac. And so our Mr Winter’s on a slapping. Happy to oblige.’