‘So where am I supposed to go?’
‘You stay with us. Help me out, Sammy, and I’ll find you a nice little pisser down the hill. Mr Faraday’ll drive you. Take no time at all. Now how’s that?’
Sammy had given up. His eyes were closed and his head was back against the top of the seat.
‘What you after?’
‘It’s about Mickey Kearns, Sammy. As you well know.’
‘I don’t know nothing about Kearns.’
‘That’s bollocks, Sammy. Try again.’
‘I’ve told you, Mr Winter, I’m out of touch. I wouldn’t know Mickey Kearns from a hole in the road. I’m too old for this game. It’s kids now. Fucking infants running around in four-by-fours. What would I know about them?’
‘Is Kearns running around in a four-by-four?’
Sammy’s eyes were open now, staring out at the view. Winter asked the question again. Then a third time. At length, Sammy nodded.
‘Is that a yes, Sammy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what colour is it?’
‘Black.’
‘A black Beemer? Is that what you meant to say?’
‘I dunno. It’s just black. Brand new. Kid must have a death wish.’
‘Why?’
Another long silence. Sammy was sweating. Faraday could smell it. Winter changed tack.
‘Kearns took himself off to the Caribbean, didn’t he, Sammy? Him and another bloke, Duley? Just nod. That’s all you have to do.’
Sammy swallowed hard, then nodded.
‘Good.’ Winter was pleased. ‘That’s good. And Kearns had himself this little holiday with a pocketful of other people’s money, people like that nice Chris Cleaver, didn’t he? Sort of working holiday. Am I right?’
Another nod.
‘So what happened then, Sammy? Only it’s here that you’re going to have to help me out. Me and Mr Faraday, of course.’
Sammy appeared to have gone into a trance. The pressure of his bursting bladder had locked the muscles of his face. He even had trouble getting the words out.
‘Little fucker came back,’ he managed at last, ‘ … without it.’
‘Without what, Sammy? The shit that he’d gone to buy?’
‘Yeah.’ Sammy winced. ‘And without the money too.’
This news put a smile on Winter’s face. No wonder Kearns had made himself scarce. His smile grew and grew. He patted Sammy’s thigh again. He was extremely pleased.
‘So what do we think, Sammy? Or, let’s put it another way, what do all those investors think? No, better still, what does our mutual friend think?’
‘He copped for it. Big time.’
‘I bet he did. And there’s Mickey Kearns running around in his new four-by-four. Bazza wouldn’t have seen the joke, would he? His dosh buying Mickey’s wheels?’
Sammy groaned.
‘Mr Winter … ’ he began.
Winter ignored him. He wanted to know more about Bazza. Had he given Kearns a slapping? Only the details might be important.
Sammy shook his head.
‘Someone grassed Kearns up,’ he muttered.
‘Where? How?’
‘Out there. Wherever they went.’
‘But who’d do that?’
‘The other bloke.’
‘Duley? The bloke he went with? This Duley grassed Kearns up and Bazza lost his stake? Is that the story?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what happened to Duley?’
‘They talked to him, Mr Winter. Oh shit … ’
‘When, Sammy? When did they talk to him?’
Winter was on top of him now, his face inches from Sammy’s. He told him they were nearly through. In a moment or two, he said, they’d be off down the hill. They’d find Sammy a nice little khazi, somewhere decent, and then he could have the piss of his dreams. Only first he wanted to know when they’d sorted Duley.
‘Couple of weeks ago. I don’t know the date.’
‘Long chat, was it? Somewhere nice and quiet?’
‘I dunno, Mr Winter.’
‘You do, Sammy, you do. You always say you don’t, but you do. Come on, son. One last big effort. Where did they talk to Duley?’
‘A caravan. I dunno. Oh, fuck … ’
‘A caravan? In the city, you mean?’
‘No. Somewhere else.’
‘Somewhere of Bazza’s?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Somewhere like Hayling?’
Sammy shrugged. His head was back against the seat and the muscles of his thin face were rigid with effort. Winter studied him a moment, then patted him on the shoulder.
‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘Much better than I expected.’
He leaned forward and muttered something to Faraday. Then came a click as Faraday released the child locks, and Winter reached for the door beside Sammy, kicking it open. Outside in the sunshine a bunch of kids were trying to fly a kite.
‘It’s fuck-off time, Sammy.’ Winter gave him a little push. ‘And tell our mutual friend where I dropped you, yeah?’
Faraday drove to Hayling Island, following Winter’s directions. To Faraday’s surprise, he didn’t want to dwell on the exchange with Sammy Lewington, to glory in the information he’d squeezed out of the man, even to claim a scalp. This is a very different Winter, he thought, and he’s still extremely angry.
Traffic was heavy onto the island, long queues of cars packed with families desperate to spend the rest of the day on the beach, and Faraday took a couple of short cuts to avoid the worst of the jams. Twenty minutes later, he was down in the south of the island, turning into North Shore Road. Beyond the row of big, detached properties on the left lay the gleaming blue spaces of Langstone Harbour. Faraday smiled to himself. He swept this same line of plump waterfront villas every morning with his binos from the upstairs study at the Bargemaster’s House. Ironic to think that one of them might hold the key to Duley’s death.
‘You’ve got an address?’
‘Last one on the left, boss. It’s a dead end after that.’
The last property looked like a building site. The house had been scaffolded and an area near the gate was piled high with bricks on wooden pallets. Heavy vehicles had turned the lawn into a parking lot, deeply rutted, and a sizeable mound of sand had spilled into a once-decent display of roses. Beyond the roses was a cement mixer and an assortment of timber.
‘There, boss. Has to be.’
Faraday followed Winter’s pointing finger. The property was thickly hedged on both sides. In the furthest corner, before the road petered out altogether, stood a white caravan.
Faraday parked beside the bricks and got out. Winter followed him round the side of the house and down the long stretch of ornamental garden until they were standing on the front wall at the water’s edge. As far as Faraday could judge, it was high tide. There was a strip of pebble beach and a wooden pier that sagged in the middle. A noisy group of Mediterranean gulls were sunning themselves on the end of the pier and Faraday caught a glimpse of a solitary shag further out on the water. Perfect, he thought.
He turned back to look at the house again. A new conservatory had been added to the rear of the property and excavation was under way for what must soon become a swimming pool. Faraday gazed at the yellow digger perched on the edge of the hole, trying to visualise what this place would be like in a year’s time. With the swimming pool would doubtless come underwater lighting, an outside jacuzzi, non-stop cocktails and a huge sound system. The inhabitants of North Shore Road, he concluded, were in for a treat.
‘You’re telling me this is Mackenzie’s?’
‘He owns it, yeah. But it’s a present really.’
‘Who for?’
‘Misty.’
‘Misty? Last time I looked she was banged up with Mike Valentine. What happened to that?’
‘She dumped him. Ten quid says she’s back with Baz. This time he’s taking no chances. As you can see.’
They began to
walk again. The caravan was locked, the curtains pulled on every window. Without a key and a Scenes of Crime search there’d be nothing to connect it to the beating that had put Duley in the A & E unit but its very isolation argued strongly in favour of Winter’s theory.
Duley’s name had gone in the frame for the loss of Kearns’ stake money. He’d been out on Margarita Island with the Buckland boy. He spoke the language, would have talked to the locals, might have done some deal to give himself a slice of the action in return for grassing Kearns. Given the pattern of recent investments, you were talking a substantial sum, tens of thousands of pounds. Losing that kind of money would hurt a great deal, offering every incentive - back in Pompey - for a serious conversation. The most creative of Bazza’s heavies was rumoured to favour a couple of Stanley knives taped together. That way, the slash wounds were said to be unstitchable. Where better to practise his skills than here?
Winter strolled away, leaving Faraday to plot the steps he knew he’d need to take next. Jerry Proctor’s team could bosh the caravan in a day, max. DNA that linked to Duley would explain the beating he’d taken. But that, alone, didn’t necessarily tie Mackenzie or his associates to the incident in the tunnel. For that to happen, there had to be additional evidence.
‘Boss … ?’
Winter was up by the house. Faraday found him standing beside a pile of discarded interior fitments, unwanted relics that still had to be skipped and disposed of. For a moment Faraday didn’t recognise the length of rope in Winter’s hand.
‘What’s that?’
‘Sash cord. It must have come out of one of these.’ Winter nodded at the wooden sash frames stacked against the wall. ‘Mist hates all this stuff. She’s into UPVC, big time. Always has been.’
Faraday was still looking at the sash cord. To the naked eye Winter was right. It looked a perfect match for the lengths of rope recovered from the tunnel. Lab analysis, Faraday thought. Just to make sure.
Winter was on the move again, picking his way through piles of rubbish, making for the cement mixer. The grin on his face told Faraday that Coppice was about to turn another important corner.
‘Here, boss. Look … ’
Faraday knelt to inspect the length of chain that secured the mixer to a cemented eyebolt nearby. Again, he couldn’t be sure, not without forensic examination, but experience told him to discount coincidence. Duley had been bound to the railway line with something very similar. Odds on, they’d find more anti-theft chain elsewhere on the site.
‘What’s left then?’ Winter was trying to tally the items recovered from the tunnel.
‘An angle iron.’ Faraday could see it in his mind’s eye, the length of steel that had kept Duley’s legs scissored open. ‘About this long.’
Winter gauged the space between his outstretched hands, then nodded.
‘Fence post,’ he said briskly. ‘Has to be.’
He frowned, eyeing the wreckage around him. Then he was off again.
Faraday followed him back towards the road. Wooden gateposts flanked the entrance to the property but the gate itself had obviously succumbed to one of Bazza’s many delivery trucks. As a makeshift solution, someone had wired together a series of iron stakes. Winter found them rolled up beneath the nearby hedge. Every night, he told Faraday, someone would be along to drag them out and secure the property.
Faraday bent to examine the stakes. Winter was right. They were angle irons, with punched holes for the wire, exactly the same pattern as the stake recovered from the tunnel. In a moment or two he’d have to set about organising search warrants for the caravan and an overnight guard for the property as a whole, but for now he couldn’t resist the obvious question.
He glanced up at Winter.
‘Couldn’t manage a padlock, could you?’
Twelve
Monday, 18 July 2005, 08.45
Martin Barrie, to Faraday’s surprise, was openly sceptical. He wrapped up a phone call and joined them at the conference table. Winter had been at his desk since half past seven, preparing a brief report for the Scenes of Crime team. Uniforms had been guarding Mackenzie’s property all night.
‘I thought this guy was supposed to be smart?’
‘Arrogant, boss.’ Winter was a man transformed - eager, attentive. ‘Smart took him to the big time. Now he doesn’t bother.’
‘So he just leaves this stuff lying around? Knowing what we’ll have retrieved from the tunnel? He’s had a week to get rid of it, hasn’t he? That’s not arrogance, that’s just dumb.’
‘Happens, boss. Believe me. This is Pompey, remember. And Bazza couldn’t give a shit.’
Faraday ducked his head. The Detective Superintendent had a point. The same questions had occurred to him. One step at a time, he thought.
‘We need a good look at the caravan, sir,’ he said to Barrie. ‘We’re sorting the warrant at the moment.’
‘And Mackenzie?’
‘He’s not taking calls. I just talked to his solicitor. She says she’ll get back to me within the hour.’
‘No need to be hasty though, eh? Not yet. Not until we’ve got something to attack him with.’
Faraday nodded his agreement. Only when SOC came up with hard evidence to link the caravan with Duley would there be any point in pulling Mackenzie in.
Winter was looking aggrieved. He abandoned his notes and leaned towards Barrie.
‘Begging your pardon, boss, but this is wake-up time, isn’t it? Mackenzie’s taking the piss. He thinks he’s home free. He thinks he’s been home free for years. We need to give him a shake, remind him who’s in charge. By holding off, we’re sending exactly the wrong message. Yeah, of course we put a search team into his caravan, upset the neighbours, all of that. But the longer we leave him, the longer he’s got to sort himself a decent alibi. Mackenzie’s got favours coming out of his ears. Half this town owes him. A couple of days, and he’ll be interview-proof. I guarantee it.’
This, for Winter, was a major speech. Faraday, watching the blood pinking his face, wondered why it had become so personal.
Barrie remained unconvinced. He wanted to know about Mickey Kearns.
‘Him too,’ Winter said at once. ‘We need to lean on the boy, pull him in, ask him some serious questions. The way I hear it, he owes Mackenzie and a whole lot of other guys over the Margarita trip. Bazza will be telling him he has to work the debt off. That’s a lot of graft. The right kind of pressure, and he might be really silly and dob Mackenzie in it.’
‘You think he took part in the beating? Supposing it happened in the caravan?’
‘More than possible. Kearns has just been grassed up. He’s lost a ton of someone else’s money. The way he sees it, it has to be down to Duley. He’s trusted the bloke, had a few beers, made him part of the team. Then, bingo, it’s all turned to rat shit. So Duley, number one, is on a severe slapping. And young Mickey can’t wait to lend a hand.’ Winter had a smile on his face. ‘Does that sound kosher or am I missing something here?’
‘What if it was Kearns who took the money?’
‘Then it works even better, doesn’t it? In fact, it’s game, set and match. Duley gets whacked. Denies everything. Knows it wasn’t him. Bazza starts having thoughts about young Mickey. At this point young Mickey wants Duley off the plot entirely. He also needs to score a few points of his own. You know the way it is round here. Violence-wise, the tariff’s going through the roof. The younger you are, the more psycho you have to be. Blame it on the movies, the video games, whatever, but a serious kicking doesn’t cut it anymore.’ Winter was looking at Barrie. ‘You with me, boss?’
‘You’re telling me that Kearns might have put Duley in the tunnel?’
‘I’m telling you that sticking a grass on the railway track with his legs apart would have them creaming themselves in Buckland. That’s ultra-violence. Serious cred. Plus, like I say, it gets Kearns out of one fucking big hole.’
There was a moment of silence. Then Faraday stirred. Already, he’d bri
efed the detectives studying CCTV vehicle footage to look for a black BMW 4×4. But supposing Winter was right about Kearns, where would that leave Mackenzie? Winter had seen the question coming.
‘With a load of questions to answer,’ he said. ‘It’s Bazza’s caravan. Bazza’s rope. Bazza’s fucking apprentice. No one can tell me he wasn’t in on it. Kearns is the monkey, boss. Why ignore the organ grinder?’
Bazza Mackenzie turned up at Kingston Crescent an hour later. He had his new solicitor in tow, a trim, ferociously aggressive Hong Kong Chinese with an Oxford degree and an accent to match. Passers-by paused to watch as she slid from Mackenzie’s Mercedes SL500, adjusted her skirt, bent to retrieve her calfskin briefcase and headed for the front door. Mackenzie, in a dark business suit, followed her. He’d left the car on double yellow lines in the station forecourt, the windows still down.
Faraday took the call from the front desk. A Nelly Tien wanted a word. Said it was urgent. Faraday thanked the desk officer, then put the phone down. Two years ago he’d led an undercover bid to entrap Mackenzie. Operation Tumbril had swallowed months of Faraday’s working life and he’d ended up with a painfully detailed understanding of the kind of power and influence that large-scale dealings in cocaine could buy. Mackenzie’s reach extended into every corner of the city and when Tumbril collapsed amidst a welter of recrimination, Faraday had made a mental note to learn the lesson. This man’s very success had given him everything to lose. He was clever. He could afford to buy the best professional advice. And when a threat materialised, like now, he confronted it at once.
After a precautionary call to Martin Barrie, Faraday headed for the stairs. Halfway down, he had second thoughts, returning to the Major Crimes Suite. Winter was bent over the filing cabinet in the Intelligence Cell.
‘Mackenzie’s at the front desk,’ Faraday said. ‘I gather he’s come for a chat.’
They met in an empty office downstairs. Mackenzie had put a little weight on since Faraday had last seen him, but he looked tanned and fit, and whatever he was using on his hair had taken years off him. The blond Pompey businessman with a finger in so many pies.
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