At the bus station he bought himself a ticket for Trieste. From there, with luck, he could get a flight back to London. He was in Trieste by late morning. He took a cab to the airport and found a Lufthansa flight that would take him to Heathrow via Munich. Late afternoon, after the Tube ride in from the airport, he was crossing the concourse at Waterloo. A couple of hours later, back at the Harbour Station in Pompey, he paused to pick up a copy of the News.
The day’s headline story, yet again, centred on Fratton Park. Portsmouth Football Club had recently been sold to an Emirates-based businessman. After the worst start to a season in recent memory, fans were expecting an injection of cash. Under the old owner the club had sold a clutch of star players. Now, before it was too late, they wanted Sulaiman al-Fahim to put his hand in his pocket. But al-Fahim had other ideas. From a chess tournament in Valencia he’d sent word that money was unavailable for new signings. Even worse, he’d just cancelled an appearance at a fans’ forum back in Portsmouth to explain his vision for the club’s future.
Winter’s interest in Portsmouth FC was limited. What caught his attention was a paragraph at the bottom of the story. According to the News, a leading city businessman might be riding to the rescue. Winter, turning to page 3 for more details, found himself looking at a photo of his boss. Bazza Mackenzie was posing in front of the Royal Trafalgar. Winter recognised the suit Marie had bought him only last month. Tight-lipped, serious, he looked – in a word – the business. This was someone who knew a thing or two about football. This was someone you’d be glad to have around in a crisis.
Winter read on. Mackenzie, it seemed, had been monitoring events at Fratton Park and was ‘deeply concerned’. On behalf of a huge army of lifelong fans he felt compelled to do whatever he could to bring sanity and order to the current shambles. To that end he was in conversation with a prominent Russian businessman, a man whose commitment to football was deep and unquestioned, a man who’d made a fortune out of canny foreign investments, a man whom he counted as a close friend. It was still way too early to make any kind of official announcement, but Pompey fans shouldn’t give up hope. Why? Because Bazza Mackenzie was on the case. And why was that? Because Pompey, as ever, always came first.
Winter folded the newspaper. He was still without a mobile. There was a public phone on the station. Winter dialled a number from memory. Jimmy Suttle answered on the second ring. Winter turned his back to the queue of travellers waiting for tickets, catching his reflection in the panel of a nearby billboard. He looked wrecked.
‘It’s me, son,’ he said. ‘You’re on.’
II
Chapter sixteen
SOUTHSEA: WEDNESDAY, 23 DECEMBER 2009. THREE MONTHS LATER.
The night before Christmas Eve, for only the second time in his life, Andy Makins was drunk. Apart from a flicker of light from a dying candle, Room 452 was in darkness. He and Gill Reynolds had been in bed since seven o’clock. She’d arrived with two bottles of champagne and a packet of Waitrose mince pies. They’d done the champagne but they’d yet to start on the pies. Gill couldn’t remember when she’d last had sex like this.
‘You want to do it again?’ Her fingers were still busy under the duvet.
Makins frowned. His brain was posting letters to his crotch but nothing seemed to be happening.
‘Later?’ He swallowed a hiccough. ‘Does later sound OK?’
The question made Gill laugh. She laughed a lot when Andy was around. Not because he was especially funny – he wasn’t – but because the dwindling trickle of newsroom gossip about the ex-house geek was just so wrong. In real life, unlike most people she knew, this man of hers knew exactly where he was heading. More to the point, he was incredibly good in bed.
The first time they’d done it, back last month, she’d put it down to beginners’ luck. Not any more. His stamina was extraordinary, his love of oral sex totally unfeigned. For all his preoccupation – the unyielding sense of mission that seemed to armour him against the silliness of life – he knew exactly how to relax her, how to caress her, how to coax her to orgasm after orgasm.
Sometimes, in her head, she strung these moments on a necklace like beads and tucked them away to think about later. The record so far was four. Andy, who had little patience with numbers, told her she was crazy to even think of doing something like that. Looking back, treasuring memories, had never formed part of his life plan. Better, he always told her, to forge ahead, to look for fresh challenges, new routes up the rockface, summits unconquered by anyone else. If doing it a certain way made her feel that good, then how about trying this? Or this? Or this? A willing accomplice, she did his bidding, only too happy to chalk up the occasional disappointment to her own lack of imagination. The situations Andy invented for them both, and his talent for choreography, never ceased to amaze her. She’d never felt so tactile, so lucky, so alive in her entire life. At forty-four, she had nearly a decade and a half on Andy, yet he was the one who was doing the teaching. No wonder Megan had hung on to the relationship way beyond its sell-by date.
She offered him a morsel of mince pie. He peered at it in the darkness as if he’d never seen anything like this in his life. Then he checked his watch.
‘Shit,’ he said.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m supposed to be downstairs.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s some kind of party. You don’t say no around here. Bad move.’ He started giggling and disappeared beneath the duvet. Moments later Gill could feel him between her thighs. It was sticky down there but he didn’t seem to mind. She lay back, her hands cupping his head through the duvet. After a while he stopped. She saw a thin hand feeling around beside the duvet. Then the hand found one of the empty bottles.
A face re-emerged.
‘With or without?’
‘What?’
‘Foil.’
‘Forget it.’ She was laughing. ‘Go to your party.’
While he got dressed, she asked him whether he minded if she stayed the night again. She’d been careful, never making assumptions, never taking liberties, aware that Andy put a lot of store by life’s small print. You always asked first. And normally the answer was yes.
‘Afraid not,’ he said.
‘No?’ She turned on the light. She wanted him to see her disappointment. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve got a breakfast meet.’
‘Where?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Who with?’
He ignored the question. She could hear the splash of water from the bathroom. He’s trying to sober up, she thought. Ready to tempt some other woman into bed.
When he stepped back into the room, she threw back the duvet. Andy was climbing into a pair of cargo pants she’d just given him for Christmas. She was secretly glad the fit was less than perfect.
‘You look great.’ She held her arms out. ‘Kiss me.’
He shook his head.
‘Use the back entrance,’ he said. ‘It’s safer.’
‘Is that a come-on?’
‘No.’ He had the grace to smile. ‘You’ve worn me out.’
The pre-Christmas party at the Royal Trafalgar had become the must-have invite on the Pompey social scene, but this time round Marie and Bazza had cast the net wider than ever. The night had been blocked off for months in the reservations book, and the entire ground floor was a swirl of Pompey’s movers and shakers.
Between them, Bazza and Leo Kinder had spent the best part of a year taking the Pompey First message into every corner of the city’s establishment. At first the response had been lukewarm. Bazza Mackenzie came with baggage. He was interesting company to have round to dinner, a laugh a minute when he was pissed but a potential liability if you looked too hard at his past.
Were you dreaming when an ex-football hooligan, one of the 6.57’s legendary scrappers, told you he was going to stand for Parliament? Were you tempted to laugh when he told you that money wasn’t a problem but he
’d value your support in other more important ways? And when he phoned you again, inviting you to the hotel for a drink and maybe a meal, and carefully explained just exactly what he and his team had in mind for this city of yours, did you put the whole thing down to half a lifetime on the white powder?
The answer, in all three cases, was probably yes. But then the vibe about Bazza’s little wheeze began to change. People in the know, people with brains in their heads, started to take a harder look at the draft manifesto Leo Kinder was discreetly circulating. One or two elements were wildly inappropriate – how could the city ever afford a tunnel to Gosport under Portsmouth Harbour? – but there was other stuff in there that was surprisingly refreshing. Like the bid to attract Chinese investment capital into the dockyard, thus making it easier for the next government to protect the carrier programme. And like Bazza’s determination, against all odds, to sort out the city’s wayward youth.
In the latter respect, of course, the guy had form. In his youth he’d been as evil and wanton as the next Pompey toerag, but over the last couple of years he’d turned all that experience to good account, founding a charity called Tide Turn Trust. T3, as he’d started calling it, was dedicated to bringing Pompey wrong ’uns face to face with the real consequences of the stuff they’d been up to, and under the guidance of a gifted Dutch social worker, T3 had begun to make modest headlines in specialist journals across Europe. This did the city no harm at all, a welcome twist on the age-old Pompey reputation as a good place for a ruck, and there were people in this very room who – at the end of Whitehall committee meetings – had taken senior civil servants to one side and whispered about the blessings of grass-roots visionaries like, yes, Bazza Mackenzie. The guy’s as rough as a badger’s arse, they’d murmur. But by God he gets things moving.
Stories like these always found their way back to Bazza, and as the Pompey First roadshow began to gather speed, people who knew him well noticed a change in his behaviour. He was quieter, less aggressive, more reflective. He’d never had a problem with self-belief. He’d always known he was sharper, and braver, and altogether more up for it than any other fucker. But he’d lost that raw punchiness which, in his prime, had been his trademark. Today’s Bazza was a businessman who knew his way around a balance sheet, a father who’d defend family values against any left-wing muppet who thought he had better ideas, and – most important of all – the favoured son of a city that, in Bazza’s view, had always drawn the shortest of straws. In time of war, as he always liked to point out, Pompey got the best of everything. But the moment the ink dried on the peace treaty, the money went back to London. Pompey, in his view, had always been short-changed. And that had to stop.
The buffet dinner was nearly over. Guests were circulating in the huge dining room, moving from table to table, pausing for an exchange of gossip or a shared confidence, their conversation warmed by a well-thought-out menu and excellent wines. Later, when Bazza judged the moment was right, there’d be entertainment.
Tonight, a little to Leo Kinder’s dismay, he was showcasing a tyro local comedian Andy Makins had found at the university. He was a young sociology lecturer, Pompey born and bred, who did a brand of stand-up that he’d cleverly adapted for this evening’s audience. Bazza had thrown him some tasty morsels about the local politicians he’d be fighting in the coming election. He’d also made it possible for the guy to meet these people in person. The resulting routine he’d rehearsed in Bazza’s office only this afternoon, a witty mix of impersonation, risqué gossip and other local scuttlebutt. Bazza had loved it. And so, in his judgement, would the audience. It represented Pompey First’s coming of age. This lot were clued in. They knew where the bodies were buried. They were sophisticated.
A table by the window was currently occupied almost exclusively by lawyers. Bazza slipped into the spare chair. The port was circulating, but Bazza declined. He’d kept a clear head all evening, drinking nothing but San Pellegrino, but now he poured himself a modest glass of wine. He wanted to know what the guys round the table made of the latest rumblings from Fratton Park. The club, it was said, was bust. The busy Christmas fixture list was nearly upon them. More stumbles would push them deeper into relegation trouble. Manager Avram Grant was doing his best, but the money still wasn’t there. So where next for Pompey?
Howard Crewdson, as everyone knew, couldn’t stand football. Bazza didn’t know whether his downturned thumb meant curtains for the club or argued for a change of conversational subject.
A mate of Crewdson’s, a younger defence brief with a real flair for scoring impossible results in court, wasn’t having it.
‘It’ll come good,’ he said. ‘In time.’
‘Yeah, but how? Who’s in the driving seat? Who’s making the decisions? Uncle Avram’s going to walk in the end. He won’t have any other option.’
‘What about Wembley?’ This from Michelle Brinton, the only woman at the table. ‘Another cup final? Don’t we have form here?’
‘You have to be joking. You need a decent squad to get to Wembley. A couple more injuries, and Uncle Avram’s gonna start raiding the Sunday pub sides.’
A ripple of laughter ran round the table. Then Crewdson topped himself up with more port and lifted his glass in a toast.
‘Here’s to your Russian, Baz. What the fuck ever happened to him?’
Mackenzie fingered his glass. Mercifully, the report in the News back in the autumn had made little impact. In the general madness at Fratton Park what was a rumour about one more Russian oligarch?
‘Bit of a disappointment, mate. He seemed keen enough at the time, but you know how these things play out …’ Bazza shrugged, keen to change the subject.
‘You talked to him?’ Crewdson never gave up easily.
‘Of course I fucking talked to him.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said he’d love to help. Best league in the world? Football to die for? Fortress Fratton? Global TV audiences? What’s not to like?’
‘But nothing happened.’
‘You’re right, son. Nothing did. You try, though, don’t you? And there ain’t no law against trying, is there? Not that I can remember …’
Bazza knew at once the mood had darkened around the table. These guys were lawyers. They were watching him carefully. Crewdson, with his silky courtroom skills, had touched a nerve, and they all knew it. This was a glimpse of the old Bazza, the guy who’d take the bait at the merest hint of an insult. Down to Crewdson, therefore, to reel him in.
‘So he’s still on the radar, your guy?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Chequebook ready?’
‘Without a doubt.’
‘So when do we expect him?’
Bazza wouldn’t answer, not for a moment or two. But he was back in control now, knowing exactly how to throw the hook.
‘To be honest, guys, I’m not the bloke you should be talking to. Paul’s your man. He’s riding shotgun on this one. Me? I do the hearts-and-minds stuff. When it comes to the moolah, Paul sorts most of that out.’
There was a collective murmur around the table. Everyone knew Paul Winter.
‘So where is he?’ Michelle Brinton was looking round the blur of faces.
‘Haven’t a clue, love. He phoned earlier, said he’d been delayed.’ Mackenzie reached for his glass at last and raised it in a toast. ‘So here’s to Uncle Avram, eh?’
Paul Winter was helping himself to another Stella. He’d never been a fan of safe houses. Last time he’d played a role like this the Special Ops guys had found a crappy ground-floor flat in the backstreets of Bournemouth. The thermostat on the central heating had stuck on forty degrees, the place stank of cat’s piss, and there was never anything in the fridge. This, though, was much much better. Jimmy Suttle had done him proud.
They were out in the country, deep in the flatlands above the Meon Valley. Soberton Heath was a scruffy collection of bungalows, red-brick cottages and infill newbuilds that had recently become
the address of choice for Portsmouth and Southampton commuters who couldn’t afford prettier villages like Wickham or Droxford. One of the newbuilds belonged to a D/I who’d recently retired from Major Crime. He’d spent his last year of service working a wide variety of contacts and was now in Uganda, advising the local cops on interview protocols. Winter had known him well, as had Suttle, and they’d enjoyed the latest postcard from Entebbe. ‘Everything’s fine,’ the ex-D/I had written to Suttle, ‘except these guys can’t get their heads around the word “interview”. They prefer “interrogation” – and you know what? They might have a point …’
Winter cracked the can and emptied it into a pint glass. Suttle was drinking tea. Thanks to carburettor trouble on the way back from Southampton, Winter hadn’t turned up until nearly ten. Now it was almost half past. Lizzie had a mountain of presents to wrap. Already Suttle was dreading the inevitable scene.
‘Willard’s after a sitrep first thing tomorrow,’ he told Winter. ‘He’s getting nervous again.’
‘Why?’
‘The Chief came back from an ACPO meet with a flea in his ear. It seems the Home Office have wised up about our friend. The piece in the Spectator didn’t help.’
Winter smiled. Leo Kinder’s latest media coup had arrived in the shape of an urbane young freelance who had a line into some of the higher-profile news magazines. He’d come down to Pompey for the day, and Mackenzie had done him proud. Over lunch at the Royal Trafalgar he’d bent the journo’s ear, tabling the tastier bits of what was likely to become the Pompey First manifesto. The journo, who’d had the good sense to do his research well in advance, was more interested in his interviewee’s background, and Bazza had fed him enough detail to confirm what the guy already suspected.
In this strategy Kinder was a willing accomplice. The whole country loved a decent villain, he reasoned. Most politicians these days had no hinterland, no backstory. They were, at best, prisoners of their own limp ambitions, grey apparatchiks with office complexions and a mania for statistics. Baz, on the other hand, had done stuff, interesting stuff, stuff that had earned him a few bob. So why – without spelling out the details – waste all that?
Happy Days Page 18