‘How many? Tops?’
‘Could be more than a thousand. Easily.’
Mackenzie nodded, knowing that he’d lost this one. He looked at his watch. Andy Makins hadn’t finished.
‘Just to say we’re starting the Pompey Passion slots. The first lot are going up on YouTube this afternoon. Sixty seconds each. Just thought you ought to know.’
The Pompey Passion videos had been Bazza’s idea. He had told Makins to find a whole load of punters who did odd things with their spare time. He knew the city was full of characters like these – anything from stuffing crows to meticulously constructed models of Nelson’s fleet for Trafalgar re-enactments on Southsea Boating Lake – and if each of the slots ended with a full-on Pompey First endorsement, he thought it might have some impact. Makins had agreed but had come up with his own twist.
‘We’re kicking off with the actors from Smoutland.’ He offered Mackenzie a rare grin. ‘Only this time they’re playing themselves.’
‘Doing what?’
‘That was the problem. In real life they’re all a bit boring so we had to invent stuff. The old guy on the allotment turns out to collect fire extinguishers. Young Shel’s got a thing about fur-trimmed knickers.’
‘Brilliant. Top stuff.’ Baz was grinning at last. ‘Go for it.’
He brought the meeting to a close and agreed to hook up later. The guy doing the PA for the media launch wanted a sound check at 16.45. Mackenzie said he’d be there.
Kinder and Makins left the office. Mackenzie crossed to the door, locked it, then returned to his desk. He’d already made a note of the number he needed. He looked at the phone for a moment then picked it up. This was the last call he’d ever wanted to make but he knew he had no choice.
The number rang and rang then a voice he recognised only too well came on the line.
‘It’s me …’ he muttered, ‘Bazza Mackenzie.’
Chapter eighteen
ISLEWORTH: TUESDAY, 6 APRIL 2010
Winter was in Isleworth by mid-afternoon. Studland Close was a scruffy parade of shops off the Twickenham Road. The agency was perched on top of a second-hand white-goods store and had a flight of steps to an upstairs entrance at the back.
Irenka Beginski was having a late lunch. She answered Winter’s knock with a plate of salad in one hand and a TV remote in the other. She was a big woman – tall, with startling make-up and a slightly intimidating smile.
‘And you are?’ Flat London accent. Definitely home-grown.
‘My name’s Paul Winter.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You’re after somewhere to live?’
‘No.’
She gave him a long appraising look then stepped aside.
‘First room on the left,’ she said. ‘People normally phone first.’
The office was spartan but larger than Winter had expected: a desk, three chairs, two filing cabinets, a whiteboard listing current tenants, a TV balanced on a stack of phone directories, a chipped mirror, plus a huge badly framed poster. Winter paused to look at it. Crowds of what looked like tourists stood in a square gazing up at a clock tower. A frieze of picturesque buildings brightened the background.
‘You know Cracow at all?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t missed much. It used to be lovely.’ She eased herself behind the desk and began to pick at the salad. ‘How can I help you, young man?’
‘I understand you’ve got a brother.’ Winter was still on his feet.
‘I have. You’re right.’
‘Name?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘His name? Your brother?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not quite up to speed with this. Are you police? Immigration? VAT? None of the above? Only I’m a busy girl.’
‘I can see.’ Winter was looking at the empty desk.
Irenka put her plate down with some care. Then she reached for the phone. When the number answered, she said something rapid in what Winter assumed was Polish and rang off.
‘Friend of mine.’ There wasn’t a trace of warmth in the smile this time. ‘Big guy. Lives round the corner. You’ll like him.’
Winter took this as a warning. He sat down. To his relief Irenka turned the TV off. He’d never much liked Copycats.
‘I’ll start again,’ he said.
He explained he’d come up from Pompey. He worked for a businessman in the city. The businessman had issues with a guy called Martin Skelley and was keen to talk to an ex-employee of his who happened to be Polish.
‘His name’s Pavel Beginski,’ Winter said. ‘Am I getting warm?’
‘Go on.’
‘My boss wants to get in touch.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Skelley owes him money.’
‘Lots of money?’
‘Lots of money.’
‘And Beginski? Where does he come into all this?’
‘We think Pavel knows a thing or two about Skelley. And we think Skelley might pay a great deal of money for what Pavel knows.’
‘So why doesn’t this Pavel talk to Skelley direct?’
‘Good question. We think he might have done. And knowing Skelley the way we do, we think he’d have told Pavel to fuck off.’
‘I see.’ Irenka had reached for a pad. ‘And you can make a difference, can you? Supposing you’re right about Pavel?’
‘Most definitely.’
‘How could Pavel be sure about that?’
‘He couldn’t. He’d have to trust us.’
‘Sure. But supposing you’re right, what’s in it for Pavel?’
‘Ten per cent of what we’re owed.’
‘Which is?’
‘One million.’
‘Pounds or euros?’
‘Euros.’
Irenka made a note, then frowned.
‘Poles like to drive a bargain,’ she said. ‘I can imagine someone like Pavel wanting 25 per cent.’
‘Imagine?’
‘Imagine.’
‘Fifteen, then.’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Seventeen five.’
‘Twenty-one, young man. You’re starting to bore me.’
‘OK.’ Winter shrugged. ‘Twenty-one per cent it is, but this is strictly payment on results. Pavel does the business, gives us a sworn statement on paper, properly witnessed, plus we need a recorded message on video with date evidence in frame. Date evidence has to be that day’s paper, preferably in English. The moment we get paid, Pavel gets his slice transferred to whatever account he nominates. You think he might be up for all that?’
Irenka wanted to know what this statement of Beginski’s would be about, but Winter refused to go into details. Instead he repeated his question.
‘You think he’ll do it?’
‘He might. I can only ask.’
‘You’re in touch?’
‘Yeah.’ She nodded, her eyes returning to the salad. ‘What’s the time frame?’
‘Tight. Tighter than tight.’
‘Fine.’ The smile this time was unforced. ‘So let’s go back to 25 per cent, eh?’
Winter broke the news to Bazza Mackenzie back at the hotel. The last of the journalists had just left after filing their copy, and Bazza had at last broken out the champagne.
As far as Winter could judge, the press launch had been a stonker. Bazza had nailed the speech, departing from Kinder’s set text and going on a wild riff about the little guys who always get dumped on. Making your own way in life, he’d said, was everyone’s birthright, and he was sick of politicians telling everyone how to live and captains of industry feathering their own nests. The time had come for people to sort things out for themselves. That’s what Pompey First was all about, and it was his privilege to carry the flag for the little guy.
Kinder, not the least upset by Bazza going off-piste, was delighted with the press reception. Media people rarely stooped to applause, and when it came it had fel
t sincere. Now, at the bar, he was using words like unprecedented and historic. Some of this euphoria was probably down to the Moët, but Bazza seemed equally fired-up. He pressed another glass on Winter and told him to pack his bags.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Westminster, mush.’ Bazza clinked glasses. ‘Enjoy.’
He towed Winter out of the bar and along the corridor to his office. Calls were stacking up on his answerphone, but he dismissed them with a flourish. A good day, he said. One of the fucking best.
Winter was nonplussed. When he’d left this morning, Bazza had been at rock bottom. It was never something he’d share with the likes of Kinder, but there might come a time, he confided to Winter, when he’d have to chuck it in. What ‘it’ was remained a mystery, and Bazza wouldn’t explain, but driving over to Winchester Winter could only conclude that he meant the campaign. This would very definitely be a pity, holing Gehenna beneath the waterline, but he needn’t have worried. Pompey First, for reasons Winter could only guess at, was in the rudest of health.
‘So what’s happened?’ he asked.
‘I got a loan. Raised some cash.’
‘Who from?’
‘None of your fucking business.’
‘How much?’
‘Enough to tide us over.’ He leaned forward. ‘Until chummy pays up.’
‘You mean Skelley?’
‘Yeah. This has to be down to you, Paul. We’re going to owe you. Big time. All of us.’
Winter nodded. No problem. Glad to be of assistance. Then he took Bazza through the day’s events. He’d found Beginski’s sister. She knew where to find Pavel. Pavel could take Martin Skelley to a very bad place. Unless he came up with the money.
‘How much is he costing us?’
‘Two hundred and fifty grand.’
‘What?’
‘Think of it as a bargain, Baz. Skelley plays hardball. Assuming this Pavel comes through, he’s going to be putting his neck on the line. He’s pricing the risk at 25 per cent. That still leaves us with seven hundred and fifty grand.’
Mackenzie nodded. He needed to know that Winter had bargained him down.
‘Her, Baz. And yes, I did, or at least I tried. No money changes hands until we get repaid by Skelley. And I’ve drawn the deadline for Pavel as tight as I can.’
‘Like when?’
‘The 16th. That’s the end of next week. I’ve told her we need everything from Pavel by then.’
He explained the details. Bazza held his gaze.
‘And we’re sure this guy’s in the know? We’re absolutely sure he’s got something on Skelley?’
‘Yeah. For my money, like I told you last week, he was the driver that took Holman’s body up to the Lake District. It turns out Skelley’s got a big pad up there, bang on the water.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘She did. And the only way she can possibly know is from Pavel.’
‘So Johnny’s at the bottom of some fucking lake? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yeah. Think it through, Baz. We knew the state of Johnny before he disappeared. We knew he probably nicked off with your toot. That made him an obvious target. One way or another, that toot ended up with Skelley.’
‘Then how come we got a settlement from Lou Sadler?’
‘Fuck knows. The way I see it, she was the broker. She flogged it on to Skelley, gave us 350K from the proceeds, and he did the business. That kind of weight, you’re looking at a couple of mil, give or take.’
‘Which we want back.’
‘Exactly.’
Mackenzie nodded. He seemed appeased. Any minute now, thought Winter, he’s going to start talking about Johnny Holman. To date, in the absence of a body, the poor guy was in limbo, denied both a funeral and a memorial service. The Bazza of old would have thought that outrageous. Not any longer.
‘Johnny dicked us,’ he said. ‘I find that hard to forgive.’
‘Forgive or believe?’
‘Forgive. The state of the guy at the end. Pathetic.’
He brooded for a while, twirling the champagne glass between his fingers. Then he shook his head, the way a dog might shake the rain off, and asked about Pavel. Who was going to sort this guy out? What was supposed to happen next?
‘His sister’s going to bell me tonight. My guess is she lifted the phone the moment I left, sounded him out, checked whether he’s up for the deal.’
‘And if he’s not?’
‘Fuck knows. I could try some police contacts. They might have nailed him by now. The file’s still open.’
‘How come you know that, mush?’
There was an edge to the question Winter didn’t much like. He took his time replying.
‘Because I was a copper once, Baz. And because coppers never change their ways. A multiple homicide? Four bodies in a burned-out farmhouse? Johnny Holman wiped off the face of the earth? Those guys don’t stop looking. Ever.’
‘So who would you talk to?’
‘I haven’t a clue. It’s just a possibility, a way forward, that’s all. Hopefully the sister comes back tonight, Pavel’s said yes, and it’s all sweet.’
‘But say it’s not. Who do you talk to?’
‘Dunno.’ Winter shrugged. ‘Jimmy Suttle might be a good place to start.’
‘The lad who tried it on with Trude?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The one who married the bird from the News?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The one who asked you to be godfather to their nipper?’
‘That’s right.’
Mackenzie was smiling now, the mirthless smirk he reserved for moments in his life when he wanted to pass a message. Don’t fuck around with me, he was saying.
‘You thought I didn’t know, didn’t you?’
‘About what, Baz?’
‘About young Grace. About you and Suttle tucked up together. He’s Filth, mush. And you work for me. And from where I’m sitting that spells big fucking trouble.’
‘He’s like a son, Baz. I taught him everything I know.’
‘That’s what worries me. You were a decent cop in your time. Better than the other dickheads.’
‘So what are you saying? I resign as godfather? Would that make you feel better?’
‘Don’t be a twat.’
‘What then?’
‘Nothing. Except you said it yourself, didn’t you? Once a copper always a copper.’ He leaned forward across the desk, his voice a whisper. Then he reached for Winter’s tie and pulled him even closer. ‘I’m gonna say this once, just once, OK? Don’t even think of dicking me around. Because if you do I’ll tear you into fucking pieces. You got that, mush? You understand my drift?’
Winter nodded. There was a long silence. Mackenzie’s grip slackened and he sat back, a tiny figure behind the big, big desk.
‘You know something, Baz?’ Winter was on his feet now. ‘This fucking city really deserves someone like you.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, mush.’ The smile again. ‘Lucky I’ve got a sense of humour, eh?’
On his way out of the city, stuck in traffic, Winter brooded. Sometimes, like now, he felt it might be cheaper, quicker and altogether more merciful to simply shoot Mackenzie. For the price of a bullet or two he could bring this whole pantomime, with its alarming plot twists, to an end. Baz would be dead, the nation would be spared the possibility of a Pompey First MP, and – with the crime mysteriously undetected – Winter could ghost away into something resembling a peaceful life. But then, as the queue of commuter cars began to inch forward again, he thought of the downside. The tabloids would declare his dead boss a martyr to the democratic cause. And Willard would put a homicide charge together to bang him up for fuck knows how long.
So where would that leave Misty? Over the last few months, since Trude’s accident, Winter knew they’d grown closer than they’d ever been. He’d always admired Misty’s gutsiness, her absolute refusal to buckle under any of life’s pr
essures, but what had happened to Trude had tested her to the limit, and some nights, as the weight fell off her, Winter could see the gauntness and the despair in her face.
As proud and independent as ever, she’d insisted that this ongoing trauma was hers to handle. On the night of the accident Trude had been with virtual strangers. The boy at the wheel, the one who’d died, was out of his head on a cocktail of Class A drugs and Trude herself had been drinking heavily. None of that was Winter’s doing, and the last thing Misty wanted was to lumber him with a family that had no one to blame but themselves. That, though, wasn’t the issue. In Winter’s book Misty deserved all the support she could get.
As a result, he’d spent most weekends with her at the Spinal Unit over in Salisbury. The drive was a pain in the arse and he’d always loathed hospitals, but as Jimmy Suttle had pointed out, this was no more of a cross than Faraday had volunteered to bear. At the time, Winter had wondered about the comparison, but the more he thought about it the more he knew that Suttle was right. Before his breakdown Faraday had been going to a different part of the hospital, the Burns Unit, but both men were supporting someone they loved. In Faraday’s case it had been his partner Gabrielle, who was desperate to adopt a little Palestinian girl badly burned in Gaza. For Winter it was Misty Gallagher, fighting every inch of the way to bring her errant daughter back to life.
He eased the Lexus off the motorway at the Hayling Island exit, still thinking about Faraday, surprised that he missed him so much.
Misty had been at home since mid-afternoon. The news from the hospital wasn’t great.
‘They think she’s got something called posterior cord syndrome, pet. Here, I got them to write it down.’
She fumbled in her bag and gave Winter a scrap of paper. These days, without her glasses, Misty couldn’t read a thing.
Winter peered at the handwriting. Capital letters. Easy. ‘You’re right, Mist. So what’s posterior cord syndrome?’
Misty was at the fridge, sorting out a Stella for Winter. She was drinking white wine this evening. The bottle was already two thirds done.
‘I think it’s got to do with the back of the neck … here.’ Winter felt her fingers pressing against the collar of his shirt. ‘That’s where the cord got damaged, on the back bit.’
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