Maddox finally answered from Porec. She said she was at the agency. She’d had one customer all morning and he’d only come in to make a pass at her.
Winter, relieved that she hadn’t put to sea with Josip, said he was about to change all that. He had money. And he wanted her to find a six-month rental.
‘How much have you got?’
‘Enough.’
‘One bedroom? Two?’
‘Three, minimum.’
‘Three? What haven’t you told me?’
‘Long story. Think me and a lady called Misty and a twenty-five-year-old with a walking problem.’
‘Croats are useless around disability.’
‘Then find us a carpenter. Or someone who can sort out the aids we’ll need.’ Winter grinned. The prospect of money made things so simple. ‘Deal?’
He hung up in time to catch Misty doing a twirl in a low-cut cocktail dress he’d last seen her wearing in the days when she was still pulling Bazza. She struck a pose, pushed her chest out.
‘What do you think? Yes or no?’
‘I think yes, Mist.’ Winter’s grin widened. ‘Come here.’
Mid-morning, contrary to what he’d told Winter, Bazza turned up at Fort Nelson. Leo Kinder, who was beginning to despair about the campaign, was struck by the change in his candidate. The gloom seemed to have lifted. He was his old self again, Pompey’s bantam cock, strutting his stuff.
‘Alright, are we?’
‘Never better, mush.’ Bazza shot him a wink. ‘Thank fuck for marriage.’
Kinder looked at him a moment, wanting to know more, but time was moving on.
‘The piece to camera? You’re happy to go for it?’
‘No problem. I’ve got it nailed.’
Kinder had struck a deal to bus in a couple of classes of kids from a local primary school, and the Royal Armouries, who ran the museum, had been as good as their word in offering help. Bazza was best mates with the young cameraman who turned up from BBC South and even the weather was on Pompey First’s side. Best of all, for the first time in nearly a week there was no sign of the scrote vote.
The cameraman set up for the master shot. Leo wanted a gaggle of kids around Bazza as he walked along a line of artillery pieces. Some of these monsters had been installed to defend Pompey against the marauding French, and the plan was to track slowly backwards until Bazza and his eager young posse got to the last cannon. This one had been primed with a blank charge, and it was Bazza’s job to order the attending gunner to let fly.
Kinder knew enough about media set-ups like these to understand how much he was asking of Mackenzie. The walk was timed at around three minutes. From start to finish Bazza had to cover more than five hundred years of history, from the sinking of the Mary Rose to the dispatch of the Falklands task force. This was a challenge that would stretch a seasoned professional. Bazza had never done anything like it in his life.
Kinder needn’t have worried. From the moment he set foot in the fort and saw the guns, Bazza was in top form. He rallied the kids, led them yelping and screaming down the ramparts, and then bullied them into a wide circle around him. He let the sound recordist fit a radio mike, jogged along the line of artillery for a word with the gunner, then returned. The cameraman, who was shooting this first take hand-held, had organised someone to guide him backwards as he held Bazza in shot. All that remained, in Bazza’s phrase, was nailing it.
On Kinder’s cue taping began. Bazza, who’d established a rapport with the kids, kicked off with Henry VIII. Big fat guy, he said, nodding down towards the city below. The Frenchies arrived off Southsea Castle, the battle started, the Mary Rose heeled over and hundreds of men died. These were local blokes, he said. Blokes like your dad and your grandad. All dead. For why? Because Pompey, your Pompey, our Pompey, mattered. We were in the right place at the right time fighting the right enemy. After Henry’s precious flagship came Admiral Byng – total wimp, executed by firing squad in Spithead. And then HMS Victory smashing through the French line of battle. And then the world’s first ironclad, HMS Warrior. And then the Dreadnoughts chasing the Germans at the Battle of Jutland. And then the D-Day armada thundering south towards France. And finally HMS Hermes sailing halfway round the world to put the Argies back in their box. These, said Bazza, were Pompey blokes. Something we ought to remember. Something we ought to be proud of. Something we ought to celebrate. Why? Because Pompey had always been the guardian of the nation’s flame.
This last line was Kinder’s but the rest was pure Bazza. And as he came to a halt beside the last gun, he turned to the kids with a question: ‘You want to send the French a message? You do? Then here it is …’
A nod to the gunner cued the blank charge. The girls screamed. The boys covered their ears. Even the cameraman was impressed.
‘Brilliant,’ he muttered to Kinder. ‘How the fuck did he manage that?’
Winter was in Winchester by half past two. Suttle and Parsons met him at the safe house. Parsons wanted to know about Skelley.
‘He’s coming down tonight. Mackenzie talked to him first thing this morning.’
‘And what do you think he’s going to say?’
‘I think he’ll tell us to fuck off. As far as I can see, he’s not having it.’
Parsons, like Suttle, was worried about the strength of the evidence. The DVD interview was a taster, no more. Lublin police were on standby with a European Arrest Warrant, and Beginski could be back in London by the weekend if Willard chose to trigger proceedings.
Suttle needed to be sure that Winter would be present when Skelley met Mackenzie.
‘I’m assuming yes.’
‘Then you’ll need to wear a wire unless there’s some other way we can put a rig in. I know you don’t want to, but there’s no alternative.’
Winter knew he was right. Whatever transpired at this evening’s meet would be priceless ammunition when it came to arrest and interview, and the transcripts would probably end up in a court of law. But there was a downside, too. Winter had never been much interested in risk assessments but on this occasion he was prepared to make an exception.
‘Skelley’s a quality criminal,’ he said. ‘I’m assuming he’ll bring protection. He might insist on a pat-down. The rest writes itself, doesn’t it?’
Parsons and Suttle exchanged glances. They’d been anticipating exactly this conversation for days. It was Suttle who voiced the obvious.
‘Without hard evidence, Paul, it could get sticky. If we’re relying on your testimony, Skelley’s briefs will be dancing in the aisle.’
‘A bit harsh, son, isn’t it?’ Winter looked aggrieved.
‘Not at all. They’ll turn the entire trial into a test of character. How much reliance can we place on a police officer who ratted on his mates? Who joined forces with a known criminal?’
‘But he’s not a known criminal, not a proven criminal, that’s the whole point.’
‘Sure, but here’s the catch-22. Mackenzie is a Level 3. He’s built an entire empire on Class A narcotics. We need to take him down. We need to put him away. But if the evidence boils down to you, we’ve got a problem.’
‘Beginski?’
‘He’ll certainly help.’
‘And Baz himself?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘He’s bang up against it, son. Everything I promised has come true. He’s skint. He’s totally potless. And Pompey First has become a joke. All Skelley has to do now is tell him to fuck off and you’re looking at blood on the walls.’
‘Is that a guarantee?’
‘Of course it’s not. But it’ll happen.’
‘Says you.’
‘Says me.’
‘When?’
‘By the end of the week. Bazza’s burned through the loan he got. The bank’s back on the phone.’
Parsons nodded, scribbled herself a note, said nothing. Suttle wasn’t convinced that Pompey First was finished.
‘I was talking to one of the surveillanc
e guys just now. He was up at Fort Nelson this morning, doing the punter thing. Apparently Mackenzie played a blinder, not a scrote in sight. The guy was so impressed he’s thinking of voting for him.’
‘That’s because he got a decent screw last night. God bless Marie.’
‘He’s back home?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter paused. ‘Where did you say he was this morning?’
‘Fort Nelson. The Royal Armouries place.’ Suttle frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’
A phone call took Winter to the offices of the News. Gill Reynolds collected him from reception and led him upstairs. The editor, Mark Boulton, was waiting in his office overlooking the production floor. Winter settled for a milky coffee, two sugars.
Boulton looked far too young to be bossing a paper as big as the News. His body language suggested that Reynolds was heading for stardom.
‘She’s been keeping a diary for Mackenzie,’ he said, ‘as you probably know.’
Winter nodded. The coffee was vile.
‘We’re building all this into a post-election special,’ Boulton went on. ‘She might have told you that as well.’
‘Mackenzie mentioned it.’ Winter checked his watch. ‘Where’s all this going?’
‘Good question. Like most of the rest of the city, we think we know about Mackenzie. About where his money came from. All that.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got a good lawyer?’
‘You think we’d need one?’
‘Yeah, I do, if you put any of this shit into print.’
Boulton smiled. Reynolds, it seemed, had her suspicions about Mackenzie’s immediate short-term plans.
‘She thinks he’s going to leg it. She think’s he’s a flight risk.’
Flight risk was a CID term, and for one crazy moment it occurred to Winter that Reynolds too might be u/c, a particle of Gehenna that Jimmy Suttle and the rest of them had swept under the carpet Then he told himself it was impossible. He’d have sussed it earlier. Maybe.
‘She mentioned something about it last night,’ he said. ‘Famagusta?’
‘That’s right. But now she’s got a number.’
‘How come?’
Boulton glanced at Reynolds. She couldn’t wait to share her little secret.
‘I was in the Man’s office this morning. He was sweetness and light. He had to pop out for a wee-wee.’
‘And?’
‘He left his mobile on the desk. The Northern Cyprus code is 09032. The calls go through Turkey.’ She smiled. ‘The number was sitting there in his directory. I just helped myself.’
Winter said nothing. Boulton was watching him closely.
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘I’m not. I told you just now. I knew already.’
‘That’s not what I meant. As I understand it, you’re Mackenzie’s right-hand man. You work for him. Here’s Gill telling you about Northern Cyprus. About raiding the man’s mobile. And you haven’t turned a hair.’
‘What do you expect?’
‘I expect you to be defending your boss’s best interests. I expect a little …’ he frowned ‘… reaction.’
Winter shrugged. His day was getting worse. He knew exactly what was coming next.
‘Gill tells me you used to be a copper.’
‘That’s right.’ He glanced at Reynolds. ‘How did you know?’
‘Bazza told me. It was one of the first things he said when we did that first interview. He boasts about it. You’re his trophy catch. The way it comes across, it was Bazza who saved you from a fate worse than death.’
‘Staying in the Job?’
‘Exactly.’
‘He’s probably right.’
‘He said that too. And he thinks you owe him.’
‘So do you?’ Boulton again. ‘Or are we on a different page in the script?’
Winter shuddered. This was less than artful. Reynolds, for whatever reason, had come to the conclusion that Winter was back where he belonged. Talking to the Boys In Blue.
‘I work for Mackenzie,’ he said stonily. ‘That’s where it begins and ends. Nice coffee.’ He stood up.
Boulton didn’t move. He glanced across at Reynolds and raised an eyebrow.
‘I was with Joe Faraday for a while.’ She was smiling. ‘And he told me he never really understood how you could live with working for Mackenzie.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. And he said something else too. He said once a copper always a copper. And he said you were one of the best.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Pleasure.’
Boulton got to his feet.
‘We think you might one day have a story to tell.’ He extended his hand. ‘And when that day comes we’d be delighted to help in whatever way we can. In the meantime, under the circumstances, you might want sight of that number.’
Winter gazed at him for a long moment, then shook his head and left.
Under the circumstances?
Winter knew he was in deep, deep trouble. If Gill Reynolds had put the story together then Bazza couldn’t be far behind. That’s why he’d set last night’s trap, telling Winter about the change in location for the heritage piece and then sitting back and seeing what happened. This morning, in all probability, the scrote vote had turned up at the Tipner scrapyard, and Bazza doubtless had someone in attendance to report back.
Their next conversation would be fraught, and he knew he had to make a decision. Aborting Gehenna at this stage would solve nothing. With Bazza home free or settling into a new life in Northern Cyprus, there was no way Winter could avoid the shadow of the Malaga executions. One day would come the knock on the door. And that he had to avoid at all costs.
And so Gehenna had to run its course, earning him the deal he needed. A fresh start. A new ID. Somewhere sunny. With Misty and Trude.
The thought of Misty took him out of the city. By now she would have acquired a mountain of cardboard boxes from the Londis down the road. For an hour or so he’d be only too happy to lend her a hand, a down payment on this new life of theirs. By the time he was back at the hotel, with luck, he’d have worked out a line for Mackenzie.
It was a glorious day, and traffic was heavy onto Hayling Island. Winter drove past thicket after thicket of blue Tory posters, musing about where the election had taken them all. The master plan for Gehenna had been his, and in theory it was a beautiful piece of entrapment.
To no one’s surprise, Bazza had generated a perfect storm for himself. His trademark mix of recklessness, mischief, ambition and raw nerve had led him to take a tilt at Parliament. At the start of the campaign, to everyone’s surprise, he’d done extremely well. There’d even been rumours that the mainstream candidates were beginning to worry. But then, as Winter had predicted, it had all unravelled until Pompey’s favourite drug baron found himself in a trap of his own making. According to the Gehenna script, at this point it would only take a tiny push to topple Bazza over the edge. That push, fingers crossed, would come from Skelley. After which Bazza would lose it completely.
Did Winter still believe it? Was he still signed up to Gehenna? He knew the answer was yes. Because, God help him, there was no alternative.
He was already turning in through Misty’s gate when he saw the Bentley. It was parked beneath the tree at the edge of the drive. The kitchen was at the back of the house, and Winter could see Mackenzie swivelling at the breakfast bar, alerted by the crunch of gravel outside. Shit.
He knew Bazza was at his most dangerous when nothing in the world seemed capable of upsetting him. He met Winter at the door, big smile, pumping handshake, the smell of fresh coffee on the go, even the tang of grilling bacon.
Misty was in the kitchen, reaching for an extra plate. As Winter had predicted, the kitchen was littered with cardboard boxes. Whatever else awaited them in Porec, they wouldn’t be short of glasses.
‘Mist tells me you’re off?’ Bazza couldn’t have been more affab
le.
‘Yeah.’ Winter shed his jacket. ‘It’s Trude, really.’
‘Likes the sunshine, does she?’
‘Always.’
‘Bit of a surprise, though, eh? Mist assumed you’d told me.’
‘Didn’t want to get in the way, Baz. No distractions. Not this week.’
‘Well done, son. Good darts. Everything for the cause, eh?’
Winter nodded. He was wondering about the surveillance guys. Were they parked up outside? Somewhere down the road? Had Bazza clocked them? He felt physically ill. Mackenzie was playing with him, goading him, setting him up. This was beyond dangerous. He had to do something. He had to somehow seize the initiative, restore – at the very least – a little self-respect.
‘If you want the truth, Baz, I’ve had enough. I said I’d see you through, and that’s what I’ve done.’
‘See me through to what, mush?’
‘Thursday. Election day. Whatever happens after that, you’re on your own.’
‘Is that right?’
Misty, still attending to the bacon, caught the change in tone. She glanced over her shoulder towards the breakfast bar. Winter could see the anxiety in her eyes. He turned back to Mackenzie.
‘Look on the bright side, Baz. You can flog this place now. Fuck knows, you need the money.’
Mackenzie ignored him. He was standing by the window now, gazing out.
‘We’ve been a good team,’ he said softly. ‘What do you think, Mist?’
‘Me and you, Baz?’
‘Me and Paulie here.’
‘The best, Baz. Totally the best.’
‘That’s what I think.’ He stepped back from the window. ‘So what do you think …’ there was no warmth in the smile ‘… Paulie?’
‘I think it’s been fun. But like I say, I think the time’s come to call it a day.’
‘Shame.’
‘Definitely.’
‘No regrets?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like …’ Winter frowned, then shook his head. ‘No way. I’m not going there.’
‘Where, Paulie?’ He’d come close now. The smell of mint on his breath was something new. All that campaigning, Winter thought vaguely. All those strangers you suddenly had to talk to.
Happy Days Page 33