Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  Grace, though, made it easy for him. Whenever he stopped, especially with the women, everyone communicated through the baby. How sweet she was, how cute, how well behaved. Happy in J-J’s arms, Grace played her role to perfection. Even Willard seemed smitten.

  The turn-out for Faraday had been impressive. Many of these faces Suttle knew from his recent service on the Major Crime Team. Dawn Ellis and Bev Yates were there, two D/Cs who’d served alongside Faraday for years. Meg Stanley, a Crime Scene Coordinator who’d worked with Faraday on his last case, had rallied half a dozen officers from various corners of the Scenes of Crime empire, and there was an enormous floral bouquet with a message from Jerry Proctor, an older CSC who was currently on attachment in Afghanistan. Proctor had always been a big fan of Faraday, as was Dave Michaels, a vastly experienced D/S who now helped run the force surveillance teams. Michaels had put up with a series of twat bosses in his time but had always regarded Faraday as something a bit special.

  ‘Broke the mould, didn’t he? All that birdwatching? I couldn’t believe the man when I first met him. To be frank, mate, I thought he was away with the fairies, but I was wrong, wasn’t I? The guy was tougher than he looked.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Michaels helped himself to half a Scotch egg. ‘Until last week.’

  Suttle moved on. One of Faraday’s bosses from the early days, a uniformed Chief Superintendent called Neville Bevan, had driven up from his retirement cottage in west Dorset. He was a stocky Welshman with thinning hair and a huge belly. Suttle could imagine exactly the kind of guvnor he’d been – plain spoken, no nonsense – but his affection for Faraday seemed genuine. Much the same was true for others in the room, men and women who’d accompanied Faraday through investigation after investigation. Each of them seemed to have their own take on Faraday, a special story they wanted to share, and Suttle was beginning to flag when he was drawn aside by a softly spoken guy in his early fifties. Unlike most of the guests, he was drinking tea. He had a runner’s build – slight, lean – and there was something in his eyes that spoke of laughter.

  ‘Nigel Phillimore.’ He gave Suttle’s hand a tiny squeeze. ‘I’m sorry about your friend.’

  Something in the simplicity of the gesture caught Suttle’s attention. The name Phillimore meant nothing. He thought he might have been a cop, another colleague from Faraday’s early service, but Suttle was wrong.

  ‘I’m a priest,’ Phillimore said, ‘for my sins.’

  They talked for a couple of minutes. Nearly a decade had gone by since Phillimore had met Faraday. He’d been working with the diocesan staff in the Anglican cathedral and had become involved in the death of a young girl who’d fallen from a tower block on the edges of Somerstown. Faraday had been in charge of the subsequent investigation and was, in Phillimore’s opinion, a revelation.

  Suttle had heard about this case. Faraday had mentioned it a couple of times.

  ‘The girl from Old Portsmouth?’

  ‘That’s her. Helen Bassam.’

  ‘And she had a crush on some older guy? Am I right?’

  ‘You are.’ He smiled. ‘That was me.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Suttle blinked, then realised what he’d said and apologised.

  Phillimore said it didn’t matter. The important thing was Faraday. His experience of policemen was mercifully limited, but he’d been amazed by the man’s sheer humanity.

  ‘People in my line of work know a thing or two about awkward situations,’ he said. ‘In some respects this was a real challenge, but he handled it magnificently. In fact I like to think that we became friends as a result.’

  Suttle said that all this was way before his time but agreed that Faraday had always had a talent for drawing the heat out of tricky situations.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He always looked beyond the immediate facts. That’s rarer than you might think.’

  ‘I see.’ Phillimore nodded. ‘That explains a lot.’

  ‘In what sense?’ It was Suttle’s turn to be intrigued.

  ‘In the sense that he probably put more of himself into his job than might have been wise.’

  ‘You felt that? At the time?’

  ‘Definitely. I imagine you must often be dealing with a great deal of grief. It’s the same with us. It’s not always obvious to people why things happen the way they do, why everything can sometimes feel so unfair. But that’s the way it is. If you look for any kind of justice, any kind of rightness in life, you’ll end up a disappointed man.’

  ‘And Faraday?’

  ‘He took that risk. Definitely. I felt it at the time, and nothing I’ve heard today tells me I’m wrong.’ He paused. ‘You worked with him a lot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I imagine this must be very painful for you.’

  ‘It is. I didn’t think it would be but it is.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I hate to say it, but in our job it sometimes pays to have a very thick skin.’

  ‘You mean you ought to be less sensitive?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But then you wouldn’t be such a good detective. Am I wrong?’

  Suttle looked away and smiled at the thought. Faraday’s instincts had always been to get close and stay there. As far as the Job was concerned, it was definitely a high-risk strategy. Coupled with the disappointments of his private life, it had probably killed him. None of the women in Faraday’s life had attended the funeral. Not even Gill.

  The door across the room opened to admit the last of the guests. Heads turned. It was Winter. He stepped across to Lizzie, gave her a kiss and looked round. The buzz of conversation had stopped and there was a moment of near-silence before Winter became aware of the uniformed bulk of Willard, standing alone beside the window. The two men eyed each other, then Winter walked across and extended a hand.

  ‘You did him proud, sir,’ he said. ‘Fantastic.’

  Willard, for once, was caught off guard. He looked down at Winter, at the proffered handshake, then turned away.

  An hour or so later the mourners had gone. J-J, Ulyana and Lizzie gathered up the remains of the eats and carried them out to Lizzie’s battered Clio. Willard had yet to exchange a word with Winter. Parsons sat between them in Faraday’s living room, flicking through a pile of birding magazines.

  Suttle returned from seeing Lizzie off. If this was to be a serious attempt to get Winter onside, he thought, then they had some way to go.

  Parsons had appointed herself chairman. Mr Willard, she announced, had to be back in Winchester by half past six. Best, therefore, to establish exactly what was on offer.

  Offer was a word Winter didn’t much like. He said he wasn’t here to sell anything. He was simply pointing out that his days with Mackenzie were numbered and there might be some mutual advantage in the way he chose to end the relationship.

  Willard wanted to know whether he was definitely getting out. Winter said yes.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the man’s off his head.’

  ‘You must have known that for years.’

  ‘I have. In a way. But it’s getting worse.’

  He reached inside his jacket and extracted a white envelope. Inside was a press cutting. He passed it across to Willard.

  ‘That’s from today’s News. I don’t make these things up.’

  Willard studied the cutting without comment, then passed it to Suttle. Mackenzie had evidently held some kind of news conference. In the accompanying photograph he was sitting next to a younger man – sleek, tanned, linen jacket, designer jeans. This, it seemed, was Leo Kinder, his political consultant. Together they’d announced the launch of Pompey First, a bid, in Kinder’s words, to return the constituency of Portsmouth North to the people who really mattered: the voters. Beside the story was the Pompey First logo. Suttle recognised the Spinnaker Tower. Mackenzie’s choice of background colours – bilious reds and yellows – reminded him of a particularly violent crime
scene.

  Parsons was looking nervous. Willard’s silence didn’t bode well.

  ‘And that’s why you want out?’ she said. ‘Because Mackenzie’s standing for Parliament?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what difference does it make?’

  ‘All the difference in the world. I joined him to run a business. To be honest, there’s fuck all left.’

  ‘And he knows that?’ Willard this time.

  ‘Of course he does. The guy’s brilliant with figures, always has been, but he’s crap at handling bad news. Show him a balance sheet, tell him how much money we’re losing, and he doesn’t want to know. He’s got a new toy now.’ Winter nodded at the press cutting. ‘Everything else is history.’

  ‘So where does it all end?’ At last there was a flicker of interest in Willard’s eyes.

  ‘We’re heading for a car crash, big time. He’ll go bust. He’ll lose the lot, the hotel, everything. It’s all secured on debt.’ Winter drew a finger across his throat. ‘Endgame. Finito.’

  Willard wanted to know more. It was his understanding that Mackenzie had built his business empire on the millions he’d stashed from wholesaleing cocaine.

  ‘That’s true. That’s exactly the way it worked in the early days. He’d launder the money through buying café-bars or tanning salons or whatever he could get his hands on, but it never stopped there. Once he started investing abroad he needed money upfront, so the guy ends up with a trillion mortgages on the UK stuff plus a bunch of foreign investments that have gone down the khazi. Even the hotel belongs to the fucking bank.’

  Suttle thought he detected the ghost of a smile on Willard’s face. The Royal Trafalgar Hotel was Mackenzie’s trophy buy. Situated on the seafront, it had recently won a fourth AA rosette.

  ‘So you’re telling me he’s skint?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. I’ve been telling him too, but he never fucking listens.’

  ‘So why doesn’t he go back to what he knows best?’

  ‘Toot, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Because he thinks he’s put it all behind him. Because he likes to kid himself he’s a cut above all that lowlife shit. Bazza never goes backwards. Not unless he has to.’

  ‘But you’re telling me that’s exactly where he is. You’re telling me he has no choice.’

  ‘Yeah. But like I say, the man just tunes out.’

  Willard seemed to accept the logic of Winter’s case. What still wasn’t clear was exactly why he wanted out.

  ‘Because it’s going to get ugly.’

  ‘Ugly how?’

  For the first time Winter faltered, and for a moment Suttle wondered whether he was going to mention the European Arrest Warrant. He still hadn’t got to the bottom of why Winter was so worried but knew Willard would move heaven and earth to find out. But Winter, it turned out, had something else on his mind.

  ‘You want the truth?’ he said.

  ‘The truth?’ Willard was laughing now. ‘Is that some kind of joke?’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Mackenzie is a talented man. He’s got a brain in his head. Plus he’s done some decent things for this town.’

  ‘Like the 6.57? Like flogging seventeen million quid’s worth of Class A narcotics?’

  ‘Like the Tide Turn Trust. Like getting alongside kids. Like giving Southsea a bit of a makeover.’

  ‘And that makes it OK, does it? In your book?’

  ‘It helps.’

  ‘I bet it does.’

  ‘But you’re right. It’s not enough.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he goes over the top. Because he doesn’t know where to stop. And because sometimes he hurts people.’

  ‘Ah …’ Willard had folded his arms. ‘And you’re telling me that comes as some kind of surprise?’

  ‘In some cases, yes.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘You asked me a question and I’ve given you an answer. There are some days the man disgusts me. And there are others when I disgust myself. That has to stop. And if you want the truth, that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Some kind of redemption then? Is that what we’re talking about?’

  Winter held his gaze. It wasn’t clear from Willard’s tone of voice whether he was taking the piss, but that’s what it sounded like.

  Parsons tried to move the conversation on. As far as she understood, there was a very easy way of encouraging Mackenzie back into narcotics.

  Willard wanted to know more.

  ‘There’s a Level 3 called Martin Skelley, sir. I think I’ve mentioned him before.’ Level 3 was CID-speak for a top criminal.

  ‘You have. This is the guy that ended up with Mackenzie’s little nest egg. Am I right?’

  ‘Allegedly, sir, that’s the case, yes.’

  ‘And you think we can put them together?’

  ‘I think Winter can, sir.’

  Willard turned back to Winter.

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Because Mackenzie will have no choice.’ He reached for the press cutting. ‘He needs to fund this lot and Skelley is his only option. I can dress it up to begin with. I can go and poke around various places abroad. I can try and magic up the money he needs from other sources. But in the end it’s not going to work. And that’s when we try to nail Skelley.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me. And my dickhead boss.’

  Willard was considering the proposal, weighing the pros and cons. You didn’t need much imagination to realise the possibilities. A Level 3 like Skelley wouldn’t put up with any shit, least of all from an upstart Pompey mush like Bazza Mackenzie. On the other hand, an operation like this carried considerable risks.

  ‘You’d be happy to become our informant? You don’t mind grassing Mackenzie up?’

  ‘It’s something I have to do.’

  ‘But you understand we’d have to manage you? Draw up an agreement with the CPS? Treat you as a tasked witness? Put a handler in? Make sure you play by the rules? Make sure you don’t do anything silly that fucks the whole thing up?’

  The CPS was the Crown Prosecution Service, the government lawyers who would – fingers crossed – be getting a result in court.

  ‘Yeah, I understand that.’ Winter didn’t seem the least bit surprised by Willard’s finger-wagging. ‘Two conditions, though. One, I want a deal for afterwards.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. And the other?’

  ‘The handler.’ Winter was looking at Parsons. ‘Last time we tried something like this, you lot nearly got me killed.’

  It was true. Years back, Parsons and Willard had cooked up something similar, dismissing Winter from the force in the knowledge that Mackenzie would probably pick him up. On that occasion his handler had let him down badly, and in the end Winter had decided to stay with Mackenzie for real. Now, though, that decision wasn’t looking so clever.

  Willard said that the choice of handler would be his and his alone.

  ‘Fine.’ Winter got to his feet and reached for his jacket. Willard stared up at him.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home.’ He glanced at his watch, then nodded at Suttle. ‘I’m happy to work with Jimmy. No offence, sir, but anyone else and I’m afraid I’m out.’

  It was nearly seven by the time Suttle made it back home. Faced with Winter’s ultimatum, Willard had been unyielding. Once Winter had gone, he told Suttle to stay in touch. In his view there were pressing reasons why Winter had made the approach in the first place. Sooner or later the devious little scrote would be back because he probably had no other option. When Suttle enquired who else he had in mind as a handler, Willard said it was irrelevant. In any negotiation you had to be sure who was bossing the thing. Letting Winter have his way from the start was a short cut to disaster. There had to be rules. There
had to be a protocol. And Winter had to understand who was in charge.

  Shortly afterwards, with Parsons in tow, Willard left. Suttle circled the house a couple of times, tidying up, wondering whether he’d ever set foot in the place again, then locked up and made his way out to his car. There was rain in the air again, and he paused at the kerbside, glancing back towards the Bargemaster’s House. J-J was already making arrangements to put it on the market. In a month or two, thought Suttle, there’d be no trace left of Faraday.

  Arriving home, Suttle recognised the red Mazda sports car parked behind Lizzie’s Clio and his heart fell. Gill.

  She was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, nursing a glass of what looked like vodka and Coke. She was dressed in black, a formal suit with a single red rose pinned to one lapel. Her face was puffy, and Suttle knew at once she’d been crying. J-J was at the stove, preparing something with garlic and tomatoes, and every now and then Gill sneaked a look at him, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

  ‘Lizzie’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘With the baby.’

  Suttle nodded. He’d heard Grace crying the moment he’d opened the front door. He knew he ought to play the host with Gill but couldn’t think of anything to say. She watched him heading for the door, then called him back.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it,’ she said.

  ‘Make it where?’

  ‘To the funeral.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘No, but really …’

  ‘Really what?’

  ‘You know … I really wanted to be there … I really should have been there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because I like to think we meant something to each other. Is that such a bad thing?’

  ‘Not at all. If you felt like that then you’re right. You should have come.’

  Suttle had stepped back into the kitchen, manoeuvring himself so that J-J could lip-read the conversation.