Borrowed Light Read Free Page B

mortar,
     part of the laundering process that had turned him into one of the city’s top businessmen.
    Stu shook his head. ‘Not true. I thought exactly what you’ve been thinking, but it turns out the guy’s way over-leveraged.
     The money he was making, he could have stayed virtually debt-free. Instead he decided to pile in. Why buy ten properties and
     make a decent return when you can borrow someone else’s money and buy a hundred and score yourself a fortune? Works a treat.
     Until the bubble goes pop.’
    Winter was thinking about the waterside plot of land in Dubai: 750K for thirty apartments that didn’t even exist.
    ‘So he’s got to start selling? Is that what we’re saying?’
    ‘It’s way worse than that. Start offloading now and you’re talking fire-sale prices. That won’t begin to repay the loans.
     You happen to know the Spanish for “negative equity”? Only it might be wise to learn.’
    Winter lapsed into silence. These last few years, after binning the Job and turning his back on CID, he realised that he’d
     come to rely on the cocoon that Mackenzie’s many businesses had spun around him. Club-class travel. Decent hotels. A three-week
     jaunt through Polynesia as a thank you for sorting out last year’s marital crisis. Only now did he realise that most of these
     castles were built on sand.
    ‘So what do we need?’
    ‘Working capital.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘A couple of million. And that’s just for starters.’
    ‘And Baz knows that?’
    ‘Yes. Which I guess is the worst news of all.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because he’s still telling himself it’s not a problem. And you know why?’ He shot Winter a glance.
    ‘Because the man has a plan.’
    ‘You’ve asked?’
    ‘Of course I’ve asked.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Nothing.
Nada.
He won’t tell me.’
    At the Bargemaster’s House, perched on the edge of the greyness that was Langstone Harbour, Faraday was becoming aware that
     his life was slowly slipping out of focus. He was developing an obsession with doors. He needed to close them quietly, deftly,
     measuring the exact effort that went into the push, savouring the soft kiss as the door seated into the frame. He tiptoed
     from room to room, longing for the coming of dusk, embracing the gathering darkness like a long-lost friend. On wet nights
     he cherished the whisper of rain against the French windows and lay for hours on the sofa, listening to the wind, his mind
     a total blank.
    One morning, with a jolt of surprise, he realised that he was knotting and unknotting his hands in the most unlikely places
     – the bathroom, for instance, while he stared uncomprehendingly at the tiny array of waiting toothbrushes. He also started
     to talk to himself, recognising the low mumble that dogged him from room to room as his own voice. In his more rational moments
     he put most of this down to the accident, inevitable aftershocks from Sinai, but what was more unexpected was a growing sense
     of helplessness, of his mind playing tricks beyond his comprehension.
    As the days and nights went by, he didn’t seem to be able to rid himself of the same thought, the same memory. It came back
     time and time again: a man on a horse he’d glimpsed briefly, in the middle of the night, from the window of the hotel where
     he and Gabrielle had been staying in Aqaba, days before the accident. The horse and rider had appeared from nowhere, the clatter
     of hooves waking him up. He’d gone to the window and watched the man on the horse careering back and forth across the dusty
     parking lot, tugging hard on the reins. The man had looked angry. He’d carried a stick, slashing left and right at the empty
     night air. And then he’d disappeared. The breeze from the sea on Faraday’s face had been warm, a kind of balm. But what remained
     was the sense of bewilderment. Why the horse? At that time of night? And what was the man doing there, riding from nowhere
     to nowhere? So violent? So manic?
    This was