Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Gangster’s harsh, Ma. The guy runs a decent business.’

  ‘And the beating-up thing?’

  ‘That was unfortunate.’

  ‘But true?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Mackenzie laughed. ‘Paulie’s fault. He should have seen it coming.’

  With this Mackenzie had brought the conversation to an end. He’d phone her later to tell her more, and when he did so – from the lobby of the Buckland Community Centre – he tried to convince her that there was another side to Cesar Dobroslaw.

  ‘This guy’s a Pole, Ma. That’s where he begins and ends. Southampton’s full of Poles, has been for ever – hundreds of them, thousands of them – and he’s bang at the top of the pile. Does loads of community stuff, knows them all, digs them out of the shit when times get hard, sprays money around when he has to. Pillar of the fucking community, our Cesar.’

  Marie wasn’t sure whether her husband was making this stuff up but gave him the benefit of the doubt. A sleepless night had also convinced her that the last thing they needed was an ongoing ruck. The coming weeks and months, she suspected, were going to be tough. Better to hang in there together.

  ‘I’m amazed he’s not standing for Parliament,’ she said drily.

  ‘Very funny, Ma. You talk to the bank yet?’

  ‘No. But I will.’

  Winter, after a second coffee, was still reviewing his options. The brief encounter with the police had shaken him. Thank Christ he’d invested £3,000 in a new passport. Otherwise he might be looking at the inside of a Polish prison cell while his new friends dialled a number in Malaga.

  That was bad enough, but there was something else bothering him. As a working detective Winter had never had much time for coincidence. In his experience it was rare that policemen, who were an expensive resource, just happened to be at the right place at the right time. So how come the two guys had been parked up across the street from Beginski’s bar? Had they been expecting a visitor? And if so, who?

  Winter knew he couldn’t expect an answer to these questions. Not, at any rate, until things were a good deal clearer. In the meantime he knew he had to find some way of getting into the derelict bar down the road. Going back empty-handed was unthinkable.

  He paid for the coffees and returned to the street. The cops had gone, no sign of the Skoda. A final try at the bar’s locked front door raised no response, so he set off down the street again, counting the properties one by one until he found an alley on the left. There were puddles in the alley, and he had to manoeuvre himself around a couple of dumped supermarket trolleys before he got to the end. From here a second alley, wider, led past the rear of the houses in the street. He walked back, retracing his steps, tallying the addresses until he was back outside what he judged to be Beginski’s bar. The rear of the property was bare brick. Over a high wall topped with broken glass Winter could see a rusting fire escape that led to a door on the upper floor. The adjacent windows, once again, were curtained.

  A wooden door in the wall barred entrance to whatever lay inside. Winter gave it a push. It was locked, but the wood was beginning to rot and the door was loose on its hinges. Winter checked left and right and dumped the holdall. He kicked the door twice, aiming for the lock. On his third attempt he felt something give and a final kick did the trick. The door swung in, shedding bits of rotting timber, and Winter bent to retrieve his holdall before limping quickly inside.

  A small courtyard was piled high with junk and rubbish from what must have been a kitchen. The carcase of an oven lay abandoned beside a fridge. Rotting food spilled from sodden cardboard boxes. A mountain of yellow crates was partly shrouded by a dripping tarpaulin. Winter picked his way between the debris. The flagstones were greasy underfoot. A door beside the foot of the fire escape was locked. He thought about kicking it in but abandoned the idea. Doing the back gate had knackered his ankle.

  He struggled up the fire escape. To his relief, the door at the top was unlocked. He pushed it open. First he could smell weed, then came a heavy sour gust of old chip fat. He closed the door behind him and paused to get his breath back. The place was in semi-darkness. When his eyes accustomed to the gloom, he could make out a primitive kitchen: a two-ring electric burner, a tiny fridge, dripping taps in a cracked sink. A table was littered with food. A slice of bread felt soft to the touch. Winter smiled. The woman across the street had been right: someone was living here.

  He stepped into a tiny upstairs landing, trying to map the flat in his head. There were three doors. The first was probably a bathroom, the other two maybe bedrooms. Winter chose the middle door, pushing it open, telling himself that this was probably where you’d sleep, away from the noise of the street. He was wrong. The room was bare except for an abandoned pair of muddy boots.

  He returned to the landing. A slow drip-drip from somewhere ahead told him that the roof was dodgy. He paused in front of the remaining door, then knocked. When nothing happened, he knocked again. Then came a voice, a grunt, something in Polish he didn’t understand. He opened the door and went in. The curtains had seen better days and a thin grey light washed into the room. A big double bed was set against the back wall. Something was stirring under the duvet and Winter waited until a face appeared. Male. White. Unshaven. And very confused.

  ‘Pavel Beginski?’

  The name prompted a nod. Beginski’s English, to Winter’s relief, was excellent.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said.

  Mackenzie’s afternoon campaigning took him to a Sure Start Centre at the top of the island. Fat Pompey mums sharing packets of custard creams. Kids learning graffiti skills with finger paints and sky-blue chalk. Harassed staff fretting about the imminent spending cuts. Kinder had briefed Mackenzie on the latter issue, and Bazza, in keeping with his normal MO, had revved up the statistics to make a decent impact.

  ‘Whatever the Tories say, you’re looking at 40 per cent cuts across the board,’ he told the centre’s Secretary. ‘Because they lie all the time, I’d make that 50 per cent. The Labour lot, credit to them, have given us sixteen Pompey centres. Let the Tories in and you can kiss goodbye to half of them. Do the sums, love. Odds like that, and I’d be looking to put my vote somewhere else.’

  The gambit was effective. Towards the end of his visit, trying to explain the offside rule to a stroppy three-year-old, Mackenzie found himself suddenly in conversation with another parent. Her name was Kelly. She looked about twelve. What she’d heard from the Secretary had upset her deeply. Mackenzie could see the alarm in her eyes.

  ‘There’s no way they can do that, is there? Just close a place like this down?’

  ‘Of course they can. They’ll dress it up. They’ll tell you it’s in the national interest. They’ll say we can’t afford luxuries like this any more.’

  ‘But that’s so wrong. I work for a living. Without this place, me and little Rosa would be back on the dole.’

  ‘That’s another thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The dole. Benefits. Vote Tory and you’ll lose the lot, Kell.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘Me? I’ll make sure none of that happens. Why? Because people like you matter. How? Because I’m a businessman, because I’ve got loads of experience, because I understand all this stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Money, Kell.’

  Mackenzie broke off to take a call on his mobile. It was Whittiker again, phoning from the bank. He had some good news. Mr Dobroslaw’s solicitor had been in touch. The loan would be in Mackenzie’s account by close of play.

  Mackenzie grunted his thanks. He looked up to finish his conversation but Kelly had drifted away.

  It was late afternoon before Beginski was in any kind of state to address the recent past. To begin with, Winter simply assumed the man was a piss head. The place was littered with the evidence – empty bottles of vodka as well as half-crushed cans of Tyskie strong lager �
�� but once he’d taken a proper look, watching the guy fumble his way round the kitchen, squeezing another cup of coffee from yesterday’s dregs, hunting for something to go on his two remaining slices of bread, he began to wonder whether there wasn’t something more to it than alcohol.

  He was older than Winter had anticipated, probably older than Winter himself. He was tall and slightly cadaverous. His lank grey hair was beginning to thin, and a rare smile revealed a row of blackened teeth. There wasn’t much in this man’s face to tempt drinkers in from the street. No wonder the bar had failed.

  Winter did his best to find out more, but Beginski wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He’d taken the bar over from a friend of a friend. It had cost him far too much money and he should never have done it. It was closed now because he’d run out of credit with the brewers, and that was that. He owed the bank. Next he’d probably find himself out on the street.

  He seemed to accept this prospect as inevitable. When Winter asked him whether he’d expected this visit – a total stranger knocking at his bedroom door – he said yes. His sister had been on a couple of days ago from London. He’d never much liked her, but for once in his life she seemed to have done him a favour.

  ‘She told you what we want?’

  ‘Sure. You’ll have to tell me again, though.’ He tapped his head. ‘No good.’

  Winter explained the deal. Already he’d decided to skip the visit to a solicitor to witness a written statement. In this man’s state, given the possible involvement of the local cops, that was a risk he wasn’t prepared to take.

  ‘I’ve got a camera with me,’ Winter said. ‘I’m going to ask you some questions.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Martin Skelley …’ Winter gazed at him. ‘Skelley? The guy who used to employ you?’

  ‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘Freezee.’

  ‘You drove a van for him?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And before you chucked the job in we think you took something up to the Lake District … is that right?’

  ‘Yeah …’ he was concentrating hard now ‘… I did.’

  ‘What was that something?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we think Mr Skelley owes you some money. Quite a lot of money. And we think we’re the people who can make that happen.’

  They were sitting in the kitchen. The single bare bulb threw harsh shadows. After coffee and a slice or two of bread Beginski looked even more wrecked. He got to his feet and looked around until he found an inch or two of vodka at the bottom of a bottle under the sink. He drained the bottle and sat down again. The alcohol did him a power of good. Finally he seemed to remember what he’d signed up to.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We do it.’

  Winter unpacked the camera. He’d practised last night in the hotel room, interviewing himself in the bathroom mirror. The screen on the back of the camera was a handy size. All he had to do was select video mode, keep Beginski’s face in shot and hit the play button.

  ‘Right.’ Winter had the camera ready. ‘So let’s go through it …’

  He asked Beginski to hold up this morning’s copy of the Telegraph. Then, step by step, exactly the way he might have handled it in the interview room, Winter took Beginski through the series of events that had led to his decision to bin his job with Freezee. How he’d joined Skelley’s firm in the first place, after a heads-up from a mate. How he’d spent the best part of a year delivering cut-price burgers to various outlets, chiefly in the south. How one morning Skelley had intercepted him in the yard, called him into the office and asked whether or not he was up for a special job.

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘I had to go to a place on the Isle of Wight. A farm, it was. Someone would meet with me and give me a parcel.’

  ‘Did you ask what was in the parcel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I said yes. Of course I said yes. I worked for Skelley. I was on the Isle of Wight, making deliveries. And he said he’d give me extra money.’

  Winter knew from the file he’d read that the pick-up must have happened on a Monday.

  ‘Sure. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Describe the parcel.’

  ‘Big. Heavy. Like a log. Except … you know … bendy.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Black. You know those bin liners? On the roll? All over, lots of tape. Grey tape.’

  ‘You put the parcel in the back of the van?’

  ‘Sure. There was another guy there – a big guy, foreign, young, not Polish. He helped me.’

  Beginski drove the van back to the Freezee depot off the M4 in Brentford. Skelley told him to keep the refrigeration on and come back next morning. During the night the parcel began to leak.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘There was stuff all over the floor. Blood. Other stuff. There was a smell too. Not good.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I asked Skelley what was in the parcel. He said it didn’t matter. He wanted me to drive up north to a house of his. He gave me a map. Showed me where it was. I had to get there when it was dark. Someone would be there to meet me.’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I knew it was a body, someone dead. You want the truth? I was scared.’

  ‘And what did Skelley say?’

  ‘He said I had to do it. He’d give me much more money, a lot of money. And he said I could leave afterwards, get away, go home.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘Was that enough?’

  ‘That was plenty. Skelley scared me. He scared everyone. A scary person. You know what I mean?’

  Beginski drove north the following day. He slept in a lay-by near Carlisle, waiting for darkness to fall, then delivered the body. The person waiting for him was wearing a face mask. He was a small guy, very strong. He never said a word. Back at the Brentford depot Beginski spent half the afternoon steam-cleaning the back of the van, every corner, every crevice. By the weekend he was back in Poland, wondering about a new career as a bar owner.

  ‘But you had a party, didn’t you? Before you left?’

  ‘Some guys came round, yes. Friends from the depot.’

  ‘And they knew about the money you were getting? You told them?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I was drunk. Maybe I did. I don’t know.’

  ‘And anything else? Did you tell them about anything else?’

  ‘The body? What I saw? What I smelled? Never. This is the first time.’

  ‘What about Irenka?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your sister. You must have told her.’

  ‘Sure. But later. Much later. From here. On the phone. When I need more money.’

  Winter nodded. Two decades in the Job told him that this was enough, at the very least, to put Skelley in front of an interviewing team. Corroboration would come from the worksheets. Other guys at the depot might have seen Beginski steam-cleaning the arse off his van. And afterwards, of course, he’d boasted about his five-figure windfall. On a good day the CPS would have the bottle to take this to court. As Skelley would know.

  ‘Do you want to send him a message at all?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Skelley.’

  Beginski thought about the offer. Then he nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said.

  Winter hit the play button again. Beginski put his head back, staring up at the ceiling, Then he eyeballed the camera and said something in Polish, something terse. To Winter it sounded like a mouthful of broken glass.

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘It means thanks for the drugs.’

  ‘Drugs?’ Winter was frowning. ‘He g
ave you cocaine as well as money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Enough to sell? Enough to make more money?’

  ‘Enough to fuck my head up.’

  Beginski reached for the bottle again, forgetting it was empty, then asked Winter for money. Twenty euros would buy him a litre of vodka from the shop across the road. Winter opened his wallet and gave him a fifty.

  ‘Get yourself a couple, mate. And maybe something to eat, eh?’

  Beginski carefully folded the note and slipped it into his jeans pocket. Then his head came up again.

  ‘You’re a cop, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because I know about cops. I know everything about cops.’ He was staring at the empty bottle. ‘And I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Chapter twenty-one

  HEATHROW AIRPORT: FRIDAY, 9 APRIL 2010

  Winter didn’t make it back to the UK until the following day. He took an early flight from Warsaw, landing at Heathrow mid-morning. He bought a pay-as-you-go phone at the airport and called Suttle on the dedicated number. Suttle told him to pick up the Lexus from the hotel where he’d left it on Wednesday night and take the A3 south. Beyond the M25 junction he was to look for signs for West Clandon. Half a mile down the road was a pub, the Barley Mow. The first left turn beyond the pub would take Winter a couple of minutes down a narrow country lane. At the end of the lane was a converted farmhouse called Bissett’s. The entrance Winter needed was at the back of the property. Suttle would be inside to meet him.

  ‘You and who else?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Just us?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Winter found the rendezvous without difficulty. He parked the Lexus and got out of the car. The farmhouse door opened before he reached it. Suttle stayed in the shadows, closing the door as Winter stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘Go on through,’ Suttle said. ‘First on the left.’

  It was a smallish room without windows, obviously used as a study. Winter knew better than to ask about the owners. He shed his jacket, folding it carefully over the back of a chair.

  ‘Warm, isn’t it? I’m off for a piss.’

  ‘Upstairs.’ Suttle told him. ‘End of the landing.’