‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘You shouldn’t, mush. We’re quality when it comes to slappings.’
‘Great. So what do you want from me?’
‘An address. Nothing more, nothing less. Give us an address and we’re out of your face. Never trouble you again.’
‘I haven’t got an address. I haven’t got a clue where he is.’
‘Think again, mush. It happens we know how you cunts operate. Witness protection? New ID? Plastic surgery? Set the fat cunt up in some fucking bungalow on the other side of the globe? Make sure he blends in with the wildlife? Dunsnitching? Dungrassing? We know all that. And so do you.’ He picked at a crisp. ‘So where is he?’
‘I just told you. I don’t know.’
‘OK.’ Jonno nodded. ‘And if you did know?’
‘I still wouldn’t tell you.’
‘Really?’ The expression on his face could have been a smile. ‘So how do we know you’re not lying?’
‘You don’t. You have to believe me.’
‘But what’s the point, mush?’
‘There isn’t one. Our gang’s bigger than yours. Which is why you’re best off forgetting all about Winter.’
‘That ain’t going to happen, mush. And you know it. You know something else? Young Karl here, the genius who doesn’t know a salt and vinegar crisp from the hole in his arse, thinks you’re probably wearing a wire. You mind if he checks?’
‘Go ahead. Help yourself.’
The black guy took his cue. He swallowed a mouthful of Stella and then gestured Suttle to his feet. Suttle stood up. A single nudge with his knee was enough to upset all three glasses, sending a tidal wave of cold lager across the table.
‘Fuck me.’ Jonno, outraged, was looking at a lapful of soggy crisps. He tried to push away from the edge of the table. More lager.
Suttle was aware of Golding racing across the road, body-checking through a line of cyclists. Then he was in through the door. Suttle told him to cool it.
‘Little accident, son.’ He shot Golding a grin. ‘I think my new friends are leaving.’
As promised, Suttle was back at Chantry Cottage by half five. It was a thirty-minute drive to Exmouth, absolute max, and he knew Lizzie wanted to be on the beach by six. He reversed the Impreza and left the driver’s door open.
Lizzie emerged from the back door. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt with a trackie top draped over her shoulders. She’d just fed Grace, she said, and there was plenty of food in case Suttle fancied getting some supper together. She’d no idea when she’d be back but imagined it wouldn’t be late.
Suttle was still standing by the Impreza. There was an edge in Lizzie’s voice he didn’t much like.
‘Everything all right?’
‘No.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘There’s a message on the answering machine. I don’t know what’s going on but maybe you ought to check it out.’
Suttle watched her drive away without a backward glance. He ducked into the kitchen. The phone had been readied in the living room. Grace gave him a little wave and rattled the bars of her playpen.
Suttle recognised the voice at once. The message couldn’t have been simpler. ‘Top mistake, mush. Next time, eh? Looking forward to it.’ Suttle hit the replay button. He and Golding had left the two guys in the pub. Mercifully, Golding hadn’t had time to call for help, deciding that his D/S could do with a bit of physical support. For this Suttle had been genuinely grateful but he’d spent most of the journey back to Middlemoor fending the lad off. Yes, these guys were very definitely the enemy. No, he couldn’t reveal more at this stage. And, by the way, would he mind keeping radio silence for the time being?
‘Radio silence’ hadn’t cut much ice with Golding. He was both curious and alarmed. Curious because he had a nose for serious trouble, and alarmed because he didn’t begin to understand why Suttle wasn’t pushing all the panic buttons. The young D/C had seen enough to suss that the two heavies in the Angel had fuck all to do with Constantine. Bosses existed to take care of situations like these and D/I Houghton, in Golding’s eyes, was one of the best. Getting out of the Impreza back at Middlemoor, he nodded up towards Houghton’s office window.
‘Just tell her, Sarge. Whatever it is, she’ll understand.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Yeah, thanks. .’
Golding had shrugged, leaving him to it, but now — hours later — Suttle suspected he was right. In the pub he’d definitely overstepped the mark. The sudden gust of Pompey, like the stale breath of a party you’d prefer to forget, had irritated him. The cartoon threats hadn’t helped. And when those numpties had played him like he was an extra in some Al Pacino movie, wanting to pat him down, he’d truly had enough. You didn’t put up with stuff like that, not if you had an ounce of self-respect. Hence the spilled lager and the soggy crisps and the fat guy shouting to the barman to bring him a fucking cloth.
Suttle replayed the message again, sitting in the armchair, Grace in his lap. If he took Golding’s advice and went to Houghton she’d have no choice but to refer the whole matter back to Hantspol. Hantspol meant Gail Parsons and the new Head of CID who’d replaced Willard. He trusted neither of these people not to cook up some clever plan to flush Winter out. Someone at the top of the force would probably have a lead on his whereabouts and one way or another this info would find its way to the 6.57. They’d jump on the next plane, give Winter a thorough battering, maybe even kill him. At Hantspol HQ there’d be a quiet flurry of nods and winks — Winter nailed, justice finally done — and up in his new office in the West Mids force ACC Willard would doubtless raise a glass when Parsons phoned with the news. Did Suttle really want that? Did he want to spend the rest of his life knowing that he’d sent a man he liked and still admired to his death? He thought not.
He nuzzled Grace and gave her a cuddle. Then, for the first time, he saw the football programme, propped against the bars of the playpen. He picked it up, clocked the date, and leafed through until he found the number at the back. Now he understood why Lizzie had been so iffy. They must have slipped it through the letter box, leaving her to puzzle out the implications. First a Pompey stranger at the door. Then the voice on the answering machine.
He got to his feet and carried Grace to the window. These people, he knew, were serious. They had reach. They had limitless patience. Winter, in their view, had killed Mackenzie. And, one way or another, they were going to settle the debt.
He thought of Parsons again. Maybe — after all — he should lift the phone, tell her exactly what had happened, then leave it for his old employers to sort out. That way he might get these animals off his back. But deep down he knew a call like that would solve nothing. There has to be a better way, he told himself. Has to be.
Lizzie saw the boats the moment she hit the seafront. There were two of them, still on their trailers, down by the water’s edge. Among the gaggle of rowers rigging the oars were the women she’d met in the Portakabin. Spotting a parking place, she pulled in.
It was Tessa who saw her first. Lizzie waved back. A concrete slip offered access to the beach. She was unaware that anyone was behind her.
‘Come back for more?’
She spun round, recognising the big guy she’d briefly met yesterday. Shaved head. Three-day stubble. And an intriguing scar down the side of his face.
‘Tom?’ she said, uncertain.
‘Yeah. Tom Pendrick.’
He fell into step beside her. He was wearing shorts and a scruffy top he must have used for painting. He was tall, way over six feet, and his sheer bulk made her feel almost comically small. Stepping onto the beach, she might have been back at school.
Tessa was organising crews. Lizzie’s arrival was a godsend. With one seat unfilled in the second boat, she’d slot in perfectly.