an arsehole. I’m serious, son. Just sometimes life gets on top of you, know what I mean?’
Winter nodded, waited, said nothing.
‘Well?’
‘Well what, Baz?’
‘Fucking ask me. Ask me why I got pissed. Ask me what made me shut the door and pour malt down my throat. Ask me what I was
doing in Blake fucking House looking for more. You were a detective, weren’t you? Or has that bit of your brain seized up?’
Winter let the storm subside. Charlie turned up again. Fizzy water for Mr W’s guest.
‘Well?’ Mackenzie didn’t bother with a glass.
‘It has to be Johnny Holman.’
‘Brilliant. You’ve still got it. It’s still in there. I didn’t spend all that moolah for nothing. Little Johnny Holman.’ He
shook his head, looked away. ‘Gone.’
For the next half-hour, all Winter had to do was listen. How Holman had been one of the earliest faces to sign up with the
6.57. How game he’d been, how up for everything, how crazy, how totally off his head. The day the 6.57 shipped over to France
and laid waste to the Café Southampton in Le Havre, it had been Johnny H with a beret on his head prancing up and down, pelting
the locals with their own fucking onions. Later that afternoon, at some poxy stadium up the road, it was Johnny again, giving
it plenty, wading in, doing his rape and pillage number. On the boat home he’d done his best to empty the last barrel of Stella,
and when there was obvious grief waiting at Customs at the Pompey end, it was Johnny who was one of the first to hurl himself
overboard into the harbour. Jumping from a height like that took serious bottle, and the thing was Johnny only remembered
he couldn’t swim when he was halfway down. Daft cunt, the
daftest
of cunts, sorely fucking missed.
‘So what happened, Baz?’
‘He died. Died in that fire. They said so on the news. Four bodies.’
‘I meant in the harbour.’
‘They fished him out. Dried him off. Stuffed him in a taxi. He was always lucky that way.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Until his fucking luck ran out, eh?’
Winter wanted to know more. He’d come across Johnny Holman on a couple of occasions in his CID days, but by that time the
booze had turned him into a Southsea character, tucked into the corner of one bar or another, telling war stories from his
6.57 days. Winter had tapped him up on one occasion, hoping for a whisper on this or that. Holman took a few drinks off him
then told him to fuck off.
‘Had some kind of accident, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Big time.’
Bazza explained about the crash on the Isle of Man. Insurance money had bought him the spread on the Isle of Wight. Lovely
place. Great views. Enough land to hire out to off-road trials bikers. Used to drive the locals mad. Johnny, he said, had
been lucky in his choice of company too. Julie Crocker, bless her, was salt of the earth, realPompey, do anything for you, even an old toerag like Johnny. Them two girls of hers too. Lookers, just like their mum.
‘You’re telling me you know this place?’
‘Yeah. Johnny invited me over a couple of times. I took Mist once. Midsummer, it was. She spent all night shagging me senseless
in one of them barns he had. Always loved the smell of horse shit, Mist. Must explain a thing or two.’ He looked darkly at
Winter but got no response.
Winter was picking at his sweet and sour pork. Half past four was a bit early for dinner.
‘So what did he do for money, Holman?’
‘Nothing. That was the problem. Johnny was never work-shy but he lost the plot a bit after the accident. In the end, the way
I hear it, Julie had to find herself a job to make ends meet. Care home? Teaching fucking assistant? Fuck knows.’
‘What about the insurance money?’
‘Down his throat.’ Bazza waggled one hand under his chin. ‘You know what I hope? You know what I
really
hope?’
‘What do you hope, Baz?’
‘I hope the other night, whenever it fucking was, I hope he was totally out of
Winter nodded, waited, said nothing.
‘Well?’
‘Well what, Baz?’
‘Fucking ask me. Ask me why I got pissed. Ask me what made me shut the door and pour malt down my throat. Ask me what I was
doing in Blake fucking House looking for more. You were a detective, weren’t you? Or has that bit of your brain seized up?’
Winter let the storm subside. Charlie turned up again. Fizzy water for Mr W’s guest.
‘Well?’ Mackenzie didn’t bother with a glass.
‘It has to be Johnny Holman.’
‘Brilliant. You’ve still got it. It’s still in there. I didn’t spend all that moolah for nothing. Little Johnny Holman.’ He
shook his head, looked away. ‘Gone.’
For the next half-hour, all Winter had to do was listen. How Holman had been one of the earliest faces to sign up with the
6.57. How game he’d been, how up for everything, how crazy, how totally off his head. The day the 6.57 shipped over to France
and laid waste to the Café Southampton in Le Havre, it had been Johnny H with a beret on his head prancing up and down, pelting
the locals with their own fucking onions. Later that afternoon, at some poxy stadium up the road, it was Johnny again, giving
it plenty, wading in, doing his rape and pillage number. On the boat home he’d done his best to empty the last barrel of Stella,
and when there was obvious grief waiting at Customs at the Pompey end, it was Johnny who was one of the first to hurl himself
overboard into the harbour. Jumping from a height like that took serious bottle, and the thing was Johnny only remembered
he couldn’t swim when he was halfway down. Daft cunt, the
daftest
of cunts, sorely fucking missed.
‘So what happened, Baz?’
‘He died. Died in that fire. They said so on the news. Four bodies.’
‘I meant in the harbour.’
‘They fished him out. Dried him off. Stuffed him in a taxi. He was always lucky that way.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Until his fucking luck ran out, eh?’
Winter wanted to know more. He’d come across Johnny Holman on a couple of occasions in his CID days, but by that time the
booze had turned him into a Southsea character, tucked into the corner of one bar or another, telling war stories from his
6.57 days. Winter had tapped him up on one occasion, hoping for a whisper on this or that. Holman took a few drinks off him
then told him to fuck off.
‘Had some kind of accident, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Big time.’
Bazza explained about the crash on the Isle of Man. Insurance money had bought him the spread on the Isle of Wight. Lovely
place. Great views. Enough land to hire out to off-road trials bikers. Used to drive the locals mad. Johnny, he said, had
been lucky in his choice of company too. Julie Crocker, bless her, was salt of the earth, realPompey, do anything for you, even an old toerag like Johnny. Them two girls of hers too. Lookers, just like their mum.
‘You’re telling me you know this place?’
‘Yeah. Johnny invited me over a couple of times. I took Mist once. Midsummer, it was. She spent all night shagging me senseless
in one of them barns he had. Always loved the smell of horse shit, Mist. Must explain a thing or two.’ He looked darkly at
Winter but got no response.
Winter was picking at his sweet and sour pork. Half past four was a bit early for dinner.
‘So what did he do for money, Holman?’
‘Nothing. That was the problem. Johnny was never work-shy but he lost the plot a bit after the accident. In the end, the way
I hear it, Julie had to find herself a job to make ends meet. Care home? Teaching fucking assistant? Fuck knows.’
‘What about the insurance money?’
‘Down his throat.’ Bazza waggled one hand under his chin. ‘You know what I hope? You know what I
really
hope?’
‘What do you hope, Baz?’
‘I hope the other night, whenever it fucking was, I hope he was totally out of
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