‘And in between arriving home at eleven thirty, and going out again about…’
‘I was pretty much asleep. Two forty-five, was it? Something like that.’
‘Otherwise, he was with you?’
‘He was. Yes.’
He looks at her for a long time with those glinting eyes in that soft face, beautifully shaved. Gives her a sad smile, a brave smile that the world should be this way for them both. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that.’
She nods. Can’t speak.
After a moment, Schenk checks his watch and says, ‘Well, goodness me. I must get going. I have an appointment with your husband.’
He grabs his damp coat, slips it on.
Zoe says, ‘What did he do?’
‘Who?’
‘The person,’ she says. ‘Whatever John’s being blamed for.’
‘There’s a man named Crouch,’ Schenk says. ‘A very nasty piece of work. There’s a rumour, although I should stress it’s only a rumour, that associates of Crouch had DCI Ian Reed assaulted. Do you know DCI Reed?’
‘He’s a family friend. I know him well.’
‘Of course. Well, very late last night someone torched Mr Crouch’s car. A vintage Jaguar. Mr Crouch gave a description of the offender. His description closely matches DCI Luther.’
‘I see.’
‘But of course,’ says Schenk, ‘it wasn’t him. Because he was tucked up in bed at the time, with you.’
She smiles.
‘I’ll let myself out,’ says Schenk. ‘You stay in this nice kitchen. Out of the wet. It’s dreadful out there, really.’
She watches the space where Schenk had been standing until she hears the front door open, linger, close. And Schenk is gone.
She stays in the kitchen. After a minute, her hands start to shake. Then her legs. She sits. Tugging at her hair.
Reed’s known Bill Winingham since he was a woodentop. Winingham’s Glaswegian, in his sixties now — still tough and wiry. Severe white crew cut, haggard face. A fisherman’s sweater frayed at the sleeves.
He’s a decent man, old school. He’s a fence and Reed’s long-term confidential informant. They’ve got the kind of relation ship good police work is based on. Over fifteen years, it’s developed into a kind of friendship.
They meet at a coffee bar in Shoreditch. Exposed brick walls, stainless-steel espresso machines, vintage Formica tables and chairs.
They take a corner table and small-talk for a while. Winingham subtly makes it plain that he knows nothing about Pete Black. Reed brushes off the intimation with a flick of the wrist, batting away a mosquito. Then he says, ‘So anyway. I need a favour.’
‘What kind of favour?’
‘You know the kind of favour I usually ask you? Legal and above board and all that?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, this isn’t that kind of favour.’
Neither man alters his bearing, his tone of voice. They’ve been at this game far too long.
Winingham says, ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘A friend of mine tried to help me, and ended up getting in trouble for it. Now I’m trying to help him out of some deep shit.’
Winingham adds sugar to his coffee. Stirs. ‘What are you asking me?’
‘I need some weight. And a rental. A really dirty one.’
He means a rental firearm. There are people who hire out illegal firearms. Many of the weapons have been used in a number of crimes by a number of different people.
Winingham exhales, long and slow. Not playing it for drama, just letting Reed know the scale of the ask.
He picks at the half-stale Danish on a plate before him. ‘That’s a bit heavy for me.’
Reed leans close, takes Winingham’s elbow. ‘You saw this little girl,’ he says. ‘The girl in the news? Got taken last night?’
‘I heard, aye.’
‘This could help her, mate.’
‘What are you doing? Are you fitting someone up?’
‘You know better than to ask that. Come on.’
Winingham licks a fleck of pastry from his fingertip. ‘I don’t know, Ian. I don’t know. It’s heavy. It’s not my kind of business.’
‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘I know, I know. But still.’
Reed sits back.
Winingham is slow to move, slow to speak. Qualities learned from long experience.
Reed pushes back his chair and leaps to his feet, strides to the counter. He orders two more coffees and a bottle of water. He opens the water as he returns to the table. He sits. He taps his foot and sips the water. It’s so cold it hurts his teeth.
Finally, Winingham says, ‘Okay. I can arrange that. But it won’t be cheap. And we’ll be dealing with some fairly serious people.’
‘I’m good for the money.’
‘No, Ian. No, it doesn’t work like that. I pay them. You pay me.’
Their eyes meet.
Reed screws the top back on his bottle, puts the bottle on the table.
‘What are we saying here?’
‘I’ve come across an opportunity,’ Winingham says.
‘No-’
‘Hear me out, son.’
Reed gestures. Sorry. Go ahead.
‘There’s a fine-art dealer,’ Winingham says. ‘A bloke by the name of Carrodus. Bent as a pin. He came to me, a few days ago. He’s looking to free up some capital. Make it portable.’
‘How?’
‘Uncut diamonds.’
Reed nods. Waits.
‘The reason he wants the stones,’ Winingham explains, ‘is because not all those paintings he sold were kosher. There’s a few Russian oligarchs with nicely done fakes on their walls. And now this bloke Carrodus, he’s in love. He’s got a very beautiful young wife. French. And he wants to clear off, out of it. Start a new life. And who can blame him, eh?’
‘I don’t get the favour.’
‘I source the diamonds for Carrodus,’ Winingham says. ‘I take my ten per cent.’ He sips coffee. ‘And then my nephew robs him.’
Reed doesn’t answer. He plays with a tube of sugar. ‘This doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Oh, nobody gets hurt,’ Winingham says. ‘My nephew couldn’t hurt a fly. He’s an economist, for fuck’s sake. It’s just a big score. A once in a lifetime thing.’
‘How big a score we talking?’
‘Top end, eight million.’
Reed looks at him.
‘That’s at the top end, mind. It could dip to six.’
‘Six million, low end? And nobody gets hurt?’
‘Nope. And because we’re robbing a thief of stolen goods, nobody need ever know. Least of all your lot. It’s a sweet thing. It’s the kind of score you wait an entire life for.’
‘So who does the job?’
