it, slaughtered, bladdered, rinsed. I hope
he never woke up. I hope he turned over in bed and thought this is nice and warm and – ping – his lights go out.’ He looked
up at Winter. ‘You think it might have happened that way?’
‘I doubt it.’
Mackenzie fell silent. The restaurant was empty. A lone waiter patrolled the spaces by the door, a black silhouette against
the last of the daylight.
Winter gave up on his food. Bazza’s plate of king prawns was untouched. He wouldn’t look Winter in the eye.
‘Sad old fucking life, eh?’
‘Yeah, for Holman.’
‘And what about Julie? Them kids?’
‘Sure. No one enjoys getting burned to death.’
‘There’ll be a funeral, mush.’
‘I’d say so.’
‘You want to come over with me? Pay our respects?’
Winter didn’t answer. Things were slowly getting clearer in his head. He knew Mackenzie well by now. Well enough to understand
that Bazza’s every conversation had a subtext, not immediately obvious, not even perhaps to himself.
Charlie was approaching. Winter waved him away.
‘What do you really want, Baz?’
‘I just told you, mush. I want you to sort out your best suit, put a few quid in your pocket, come over with me, buy some
flowers, make a night of it afterwards.’
‘Sure. And what else?’
At last Mackenzie’s head came round. His eyes were dry now.
‘The Filth’ll be all over that place, am I right?’
‘Yeah. Any fire these days is automatically suspicious. And you know what? My lot are usually right.’
‘
I’m
your lot, mush.’
‘You are, Baz. You asked me my opinion. As an ex-copper I’m telling you they’ll have the place squared away. You saw it on
the telly, the guys in the funny suits. Scenes of Crime. Fire dogs. Arson experts. The works.’
Mackenzie ducked his head and reached for his chopsticks. He stabbed at a prawn and then had second thoughts.
‘So what will they do?’
‘They’ll take a nose around. You know all this, Baz. It’s what they do on the movies. Real life’s no different.’
‘Right.’
‘And something else …’
‘What’s that, mush?’
‘People just don’t die in fires. Not the way they seemed to have died. People wake up. They
get
up. They yell. They escape. They do anything they can not to end up dead.’
‘Smoke?’
‘The place was probably alarmed.’
‘Something else, then?’
‘Yeah. Which brings us back to my original question.’
Mackenzie nodded, picked up the chopsticks again, changed his mind, emptied his second bottle of fizzy water, shouted for
the waiter, demanded the bill.
Charlie gone, they were cocooned in total silence again. Darkness on the harbour by now, the lights of a ferry slipping past
the window.
Winter leaned forward.
‘So?’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Chapter Four
MONDAY, 9 FEBRUARY 2009.
18.05
Faraday was on automatic pilot by now. A muttered excuse to duck into the hotel down the road from Ryde police station, block-booked
for squad overnights. Another long moment in front of the mirror in the tiny bathroom, staring at a face he’d once recognised.
Another shower. Another fruitless attempt to raise Gabrielle, wherever she might be. Should he declare his partner a Misper?
Or should he simply consign the relationship, along with pretty much everything else in his life, to the lost property office?
Back at the Major Incident Room, his hair still wet, he found Suttle in the SIO’s office. There was a hint of impatience in
his voice.
‘Time’s getting on, boss. Everyone’s waiting for you.’
Faraday followed him into the MIR. The room was cramped compared to the facilities at Fratton and there was barely space for
the dozen or so detectives who’d made their way across to the island.
The D/S in charge of Outside Enquiries stilled the buzz of conversation. Faces turned towards Faraday. He found a perch on
the edge of a desk, glad of the small comfort of physical support.
With a
he never woke up. I hope he turned over in bed and thought this is nice and warm and – ping – his lights go out.’ He looked
up at Winter. ‘You think it might have happened that way?’
‘I doubt it.’
Mackenzie fell silent. The restaurant was empty. A lone waiter patrolled the spaces by the door, a black silhouette against
the last of the daylight.
Winter gave up on his food. Bazza’s plate of king prawns was untouched. He wouldn’t look Winter in the eye.
‘Sad old fucking life, eh?’
‘Yeah, for Holman.’
‘And what about Julie? Them kids?’
‘Sure. No one enjoys getting burned to death.’
‘There’ll be a funeral, mush.’
‘I’d say so.’
‘You want to come over with me? Pay our respects?’
Winter didn’t answer. Things were slowly getting clearer in his head. He knew Mackenzie well by now. Well enough to understand
that Bazza’s every conversation had a subtext, not immediately obvious, not even perhaps to himself.
Charlie was approaching. Winter waved him away.
‘What do you really want, Baz?’
‘I just told you, mush. I want you to sort out your best suit, put a few quid in your pocket, come over with me, buy some
flowers, make a night of it afterwards.’
‘Sure. And what else?’
At last Mackenzie’s head came round. His eyes were dry now.
‘The Filth’ll be all over that place, am I right?’
‘Yeah. Any fire these days is automatically suspicious. And you know what? My lot are usually right.’
‘
I’m
your lot, mush.’
‘You are, Baz. You asked me my opinion. As an ex-copper I’m telling you they’ll have the place squared away. You saw it on
the telly, the guys in the funny suits. Scenes of Crime. Fire dogs. Arson experts. The works.’
Mackenzie ducked his head and reached for his chopsticks. He stabbed at a prawn and then had second thoughts.
‘So what will they do?’
‘They’ll take a nose around. You know all this, Baz. It’s what they do on the movies. Real life’s no different.’
‘Right.’
‘And something else …’
‘What’s that, mush?’
‘People just don’t die in fires. Not the way they seemed to have died. People wake up. They
get
up. They yell. They escape. They do anything they can not to end up dead.’
‘Smoke?’
‘The place was probably alarmed.’
‘Something else, then?’
‘Yeah. Which brings us back to my original question.’
Mackenzie nodded, picked up the chopsticks again, changed his mind, emptied his second bottle of fizzy water, shouted for
the waiter, demanded the bill.
Charlie gone, they were cocooned in total silence again. Darkness on the harbour by now, the lights of a ferry slipping past
the window.
Winter leaned forward.
‘So?’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Chapter Four
MONDAY, 9 FEBRUARY 2009.
18.05
Faraday was on automatic pilot by now. A muttered excuse to duck into the hotel down the road from Ryde police station, block-booked
for squad overnights. Another long moment in front of the mirror in the tiny bathroom, staring at a face he’d once recognised.
Another shower. Another fruitless attempt to raise Gabrielle, wherever she might be. Should he declare his partner a Misper?
Or should he simply consign the relationship, along with pretty much everything else in his life, to the lost property office?
Back at the Major Incident Room, his hair still wet, he found Suttle in the SIO’s office. There was a hint of impatience in
his voice.
‘Time’s getting on, boss. Everyone’s waiting for you.’
Faraday followed him into the MIR. The room was cramped compared to the facilities at Fratton and there was barely space for
the dozen or so detectives who’d made their way across to the island.
The D/S in charge of Outside Enquiries stilled the buzz of conversation. Faces turned towards Faraday. He found a perch on
the edge of a desk, glad of the small comfort of physical support.
With a
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