Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  At this point other voices had been raised, all in support of Mackenzie, and in the end the Inspector had abandoned the PowerPoint in a bid to regain some kind of order. By now something told him that most of this chorus of dissent had been planted, probably by Mackenzie himself, but it made little difference. The evening, he wrote, had been a public relations disaster, made infinitely worse by the fact that this full-on drivel had come from a man whose business success had been entirely based on the profits from a decade or so flogging Class A drugs. ‘I get the impression this might be the first of a series of similar stunts,’ the Inspector warned, ‘which I find personally troubling and professionally offensive. Maybe we should be putting Mackenzie where he belongs instead of giving him a platform like last night’s.’

  This was a sentiment with which any Chief Constable would doubtless concur. Hence Parsons’ summons to Suttle.

  ‘He’s serious,’ she warned. ‘And I don’t blame him.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We find Winter.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We get him onside. Take him at his word. Enlist him, Jimmy.’

  ‘You think it’s that desperate?’

  ‘I know it is.’ Her hand touched the phone. ‘I had Mr Willard on before you came. I think he’s realised the damage Mackenzie could do if he really does stand for Parliament. We’re not just talking the city, Jimmy. This thing could go national. This is just the kind of idiot stunt the media love, and I bet he’s planning others.’

  ‘He won’t get the thing off the ground. It won’t fly. The bloke’s a dickhead. He can’t string two words together. The other candidates will hammer him.’

  ‘That’s not the point. It’s the campaign that’s going to do the damage, not the result. You know what? Sometimes I start to wonder about democracy. Maybe it’s more trouble than it’s worth.’

  Suttle laughed. He assumed she was joking, but one glance at Parsons’ face told him otherwise.

  ‘You don’t think that?’ she asked. ‘You don’t think there’s something wrong with a system that lets the likes of Mackenzie stand for Parliament? You don’t think that’s an insult?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘A failure.’

  ‘Whose failure?’

  ‘Ours.’ Suttle tapped the report. ‘This guy’s right. We should have scooped Mackenzie up years ago.’

  ‘But that’s exactly it, Jimmy.’ Parsons was angry now, leaning forward over the desk. ‘We have to stop him. And if it’s Winter who can make that happen, then so be it.’

  Suttle sat back, taking his time. To the best of his recollection, he said, it was Willard who’d brought the courtship of Winter to a grinding halt.

  ‘How?’

  ‘By insisting on total control. By binding Winter hand and foot.’

  ‘You think there’s a better way?’

  ‘I know there is. Because I know Winter. We burned him once before, you know we did, and people like Winter have a long memory. Like it or not, we have to be ready to let him have some kind of guarantee.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like me, for starters.’

  ‘As Winter’s handler?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Parsons said nothing. Then her eyes strayed to the phone.

  ‘I happen to agree with you.’ Her voice was low. ‘The problem is Mr Willard. He doesn’t like Winter, not at all, and there’s no way he’ll let the man boss any kind of negotiation.’

  ‘With respect, boss, that’s daft. We’re not talking negotiation. Winter, believe it or not, is a bright man. He’s also a realist. He knows there’s no way he’s going to be in charge of anything except his own survival. And that’s why he wants to do this thing through me.’

  ‘You’re telling me he doesn’t trust anyone else?’

  ‘I’m telling you he did once and it didn’t work out. So I guess the answer is yes.’

  ‘OK …’ Parsons was frowning now. ‘And if Mr Willard won’t have it?’

  ‘Then we have to find someone else to put in alongside Mackenzie.’

  ‘You think that’s possible? In the time we have left before the election?’

  ‘No, boss –’ Suttle returned the inspector’s report ‘– I don’t.’

  Bazza Mackenzie had left a message on Winter’s mobile to be at the Royal Trafalgar by eleven o’clock. Minutes later a reminder in text form had arrived. This kind of attention to detail was a novelty in Mackenzie’s world. Winter, reading the text for a second time, could only assume that Kinder had taken over completely. That, or something truly important was about to kick off.

  ‘His name’s Makins,’ Mackenzie grunted, ‘Andy Makins. He’s downstairs in reception, and a little bird tells me he’s exactly what we’re after.’

  The three of them – Bazza, Kinder, Winter – were sitting in the basement office Mackenzie had taken to calling the War Room. A huge street map of the Portsmouth North constituency dominated one wall. The map was divided into electoral wards, and someone – presumably Kinder – had taken the trouble to record ward-by-ward voting patterns in the most recent local election.

  On the adjoining wall was a display of Pompey First posters, while the area to the left of the door had been converted into an impromptu darts arena. Mackenzie himself had raided the Internet for photos of the likely candidates standing for Pompey North in the coming general election, and each of them had been allotted his or her space on the Pompey First dartboard. As a guide to Mackenzie’s gut take on how best to triumph at the hustings it was crude but unsurprising. You chose your favourite arrows. You took careful aim. And then, one by one, you did your best to nail the bastards.

  This strategy, as far as Winter understood it, had won little traction with Kinder, who favoured putting the New into New Politics by completely blanking the opposition. That way, he contended, they could hug the inside lane in the coming elections, demonstrating time and again that Pompey First had a uniquely special rapport with the locals. Kinder’s word for this was traction. Neither Bazza nor Winter had a clue what he meant, but they both sensed that his tolerance of the darts arena was at least a nod in the right direction. Pompey First was grounded. Pompey First spoke a language people understood. Pompey First would do exactly what it said on the tin.

  A long conference table occupied most of the rest of the office, a declaration of collective intent over the coming months, and on his few visits to the War Room Winter had noticed that Kinder always sat at the head of the table. That gave him chairman rights at every meeting he summoned, and – much to Winter’s surprise – Mackenzie didn’t appear to object. Kinder, he’d once told Winter, was a real pro. Given the kind of money he was paying him, the man could sit wherever he fucking liked.

  Kinder wanted to know more about Makins. He, like Winter, had never heard of the guy. Where had he come from? What was he offering?

  ‘He’s a journo,’ Mackenzie said, ‘or at least he used to be. That feature piece in the paper last month? Gill Whatever-her-name-was?’

  ‘Reynolds,’ Kinder said.

  ‘Yeah. Nice lady. Did us proud.’

  ‘Did you proud, Baz. I’m not sure she grasped what we’re really trying to achieve. Nice try. Nul points.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Mackenzie shrugged. ‘All I know is she phoned me last night, told me about this bloke Andy. The way I read it, he’s exactly what we’re after. The guy’s young, savvy, spends most of his time on the Internet. Plus he’s really in tune with the kids, knows what makes them tick, what turns them on, which is more than us lot fucking do. Gillie says he’s got some ideas we might use. She also says he’s a fucking genius. So …’ Mackenzie spread his hands wide ‘… I thought it might be worth a sniff or two.’

  ‘Gillie?’ Winter raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah. Gillie. Great tits. Great conversation. First time we met she drank me under the table. Turns out she worked with Makins before he left the News. That’s
why she sent him our way. The guy’s at a loose end. She says he’s given up on all the corporate bollocks and wants to do something real with his life. If we can get him for fuck-all money, so much the better, eh?’ He glanced at his watch and produced a mobile. The receptionist answered on the first ring. ‘Trace? Baz. Send the guy down.’

  Andy Makins appeared at the door within seconds. He was small, thin, pale, intense, with thick-lensed glasses and a scary side parting, a greasy lick of hair falling over one eye. He wore a Ramones T-shirt under an ill-fitting tweed jacket he must have picked up in a charity shop and had a Palestinian scarf wound round his scrawny neck. The black jeans had definitely seen better days, but the lime-green Nike High-Tops looked brand new. He stepped into the room, unpeeled the scarf and blinked at the faces around the table. Kinder, Winter sensed, couldn’t believe his eyes. His brand of political consultancy had little room for a fashion statement this muddled. Baz, on the other hand, loved him at first sight. The way Makins went round them all, damp handshakes, major eye contact and a smile that blossomed like a firework. This was the kind of guy you don’t come across too often. Definitely a trophy find.

  ‘Welcome, son. Take a seat.’

  Makins settled in. Bazza asked him whether he’d like a coffee. He said he’d prefer Coke. Bazza made another call then asked him how much he knew about Pompey First.

  As it happens, Makins was facing the wall of sample posters.

  ‘Cool.’ He nodded in approval. ‘I like that one.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one on the left.’

  Baz was beaming. It was his favourite too. Pompey First – Because the Last Lot Screwed Up.

  ‘So why do you like it, son?’

  ‘Because it’s simple. And because it works. First? Last? They’re the keys. The best commercial messages are like poetry. Same principle. Keep it simple. Compress. Bombard. First. Last.’ His tiny fists flailed the air. ‘Bam bam.’

  Baz was hooked. Winter could tell. Even Kinder seemed to be taking an interest.

  ‘But how much do you know about us?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much. I know you’re local, obviously. I know you’re a bit off the wall. I know you probably want to kick the shit out of the other lot. Beyond that, to be honest, it’s a all a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because I know zilch about politics.’

  ‘Might that not be a handicap?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s a selling job. This is retail, not politics.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve no idea what you guys really believe, but that’s not the point, is it? The point is you want to make an impact, you want to get your names out there. So …’ he peered round ‘… maybe there’s some way I can help.’

  ‘How?’ This from Bazza.

  Makins gazed at him for a moment. Then he ducked his head and picked at his fingers and mumbled something about Gill. She’d given him the impression that Pompey First might be up for something a bit radical. Like social media.

  ‘We are, son. We are.’

  ‘Then I’m the guy you need.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because it’s not just a question of Facebook and Twitter. Those are just the doors you have to kick in. It’s what you do when you get through to the other side that matters.’

  ‘Are we talking sockpuppet accounts here?’ Baz was grinning now. He’d picked the term up from Kinder but Winter wasn’t convinced he really understood what it meant. Kinder, meanwhile, was watching Makins with some interest. Social media was his baby and he didn’t want her kidnapped.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  There was a note of warning in Kinder’s voice but Makins ignored it. His eyes had never left Mackenzie.

  ‘Sockpuppets are a must,’ he said. ‘But how do you use them? Who do you target? Where do you cause most trouble?’

  ‘Tell me, son.’

  ‘You get to the people who don’t normally vote. You get to blokes, especially. You set up groups. You get in among the lads’ mags crowd, the Pompey fans. There’s a squaddies’ website, full of gossip - that’s a must. You lob in the odd hand grenade, stir it all up, get them onside, make these guys want to get out and vote. Most of them wouldn’t know a vote from a hole in the road. Why? Because it isn’t cool, because it’s not on their radar. This city’s full of guys who don’t care a fuck about politics. By next year that has to change.’

  ‘And this is how you do it?’

  ‘This is one way, yeah. Even if they vote for a laugh, the vote still counts.’

  ‘There are other ways?’

  ‘Of course.’ Makins was revved up now, full throttle, the fox in Pompey First’s hen coop. ‘YouTube’s an obvious tool. You’d be mad not to use it. You need a couple of guys with the right equipment to start making those punchy little movies that are going to tune people in. Once you’ve shot and edited the footage, this stuff’s for free.’

  ‘So who does the donkey work?’

  ‘Students. These people are ten a penny. The uni’s full of guys who think of nothing but making their name on screen. Put the word around, and you’ll have queues at the door.’

  ‘And what do they make? What are these movies about?’

  ‘That’s down to you. This place can be a nightmare on a Friday night. Why don’t you start there? Why don’t you start hoovering up all that stuff in Guildhall Walk when the clubs start chucking out? Why don’t you get stuck in when it kicks off at the burger bars and the kebab vans afterwards? If you get the packaging right, a dozen pissed clubbers kicking the shit out of each other are worth a hundred votes.’

  ‘For us?’

  ‘Of course.’ His eyes strayed to another of the posters. ‘Pompey First – Because Enough is Enough. That’s a great message. All I’m talking is delivery. All the images are out there. All we have to do is put them in the right order.’

  Bazza nodded in agreement. Winter had seen this reaction before. He was spellbound. ‘And you’re telling me you can make this happen?’ he said.

  ‘Of course I can. Plus lots of other stuff. I need more time to get my head round what you guys really want, but like I say we’re talking retail, branding, all that bollocks. Conversation costs nothing. Believe me, anything’s possible.’

  ‘So what would you need? From me?’

  The question brought Makins to a halt. Winter was watching Kinder. Me, not us. Bazza had taken over, and he knew it.

  ‘Well, son?’ Bazza wanted an answer.

  ‘I’ll need a space of my own and some money to make it happen.’

  ‘A space here? At the hotel?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And the money? We’re talking wages?’

  ‘No, I’m talking some kind of development budget. If you buy into the student thing, I need to nail down the production costs. Plus I’ve got some other ideas that might be a little pricier.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t want to say. Not yet. But this is stuff no one’s ever tried before, which is why you’d be mad to say no.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Because the real exposure’s gonna come from the mainstream media. My job is to take them into the jungle, show them all kinds of exotic stuff, get them chattering, get them impressed, get the buzz going. That way you get two hits for every quid you spend. And I’m not just talking Pompey.’

  Mackenzie pulled a pad towards him and scribbled himself a note. Then his head came up.

  ‘How much then? For development?’

  ‘A couple of grand to start with. That may be more than we need.’

  ‘And you? Wages?’

  ‘Four grand a month. The moment I don’t deliver, we call it quits.’

  ‘Two grand.’

  ‘Three. In cash.’

  ‘Deal. I’ll sort you a room upstairs. Sea view or something round the back?’

  ‘Sea view.�
�

  ‘Good call, son. You know rule one in this fucking world? Never undersell yourself.’ Mackenzie extended a hand across the table. Then, as an afterthought, he glanced at Kinder. ‘You’ve been a bit quiet, Leo. All this stuff OK with you?’

  Kinder said nothing. Mackenzie got to his feet. A waitress from upstairs had appeared at the door with a frosted glass of Coke, but Makins ignored her. He was looking at Winter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  Chapter ten

  PORTSMOUTH: MONDAY, 21 SEPTEMBER 2009

  Suttle did his best to raise Winter on his mobile but failed. Parsons had wrung a grudging go-ahead for renewed negotiations from Willard at headquarters and she was now demanding feedback by close of play. With a busy afternoon of intel meetings, mainly on the stranger rape, Suttle knew he had little alternative but to pay Winter a visit before lunch. With luck, he might be in his Blake House apartment.

  Suttle left his Subaru in the big underground car park at Gunwharf and emerged into bright sunshine. Shedding his jacket, he strolled along the canalside promenade, trying to plot the shape of the coming conversation. Every undercover operation, he knew, was fraught with difficulties, but this one would be especially tricky. By recruiting Winter, as he’d already pointed out to Parsons, they’d spare themselves the time and effort of inserting someone new into Mackenzie’s business empire, but the fact remained that Winter was a loose cannon.

  Suttle knew him far better than anyone else in the force and liked to think that the kinship they’d established in their early years would survive whatever lay ahead. But it was Winter himself who had taught Suttle the darker arts of CID work, and the instincts he’d acquired from this apprenticeship told him to be extremely cautious. By turning informant, Winter was putting everything on the line. As, indeed, was Suttle. In both cases the gamble might well pay off. Winter would be a free agent again, armoured by the Witness Protection Programme, while a result with Mackenzie would do Suttle’s promotion prospects no harm at all.

  Suttle smiled to himself, thinking of Lizzie. Only this morning, wearied by the traffic and the shrieking covens of fat single mums, plus all the other hassles of living in Pompey, she’d floated the idea of moving somewhere a bit quieter. This was music to Suttle’s ears. He’d grown up in a council house on the edge of a small village in the New Forest, and something deep inside him had always wanted to get back to the country, but it had never crossed his mind that Lizzie might feel the same way. As a working journalist, she’d always relied on the flood of stories that a city like Portsmouth could generate, but those days were over now, at least for a year or two, and it was obviously becoming harder and harder to keep the place at arm’s length. Lizzie had always regarded her own space, her own turf, her own peace of mind, as sacrosanct, but the fact was that Pompey had a habit of getting in your face. Enough, she seemed to be saying.