Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  He checked his watch and fumbled for his pay-as-you-go. Jimmy Suttle was at his desk in Major Crime. He told Winter to hang on while he shut the door.

  ‘Paul? You still there?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Beautiful day.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said beautiful day.’

  ‘I’m sure, mate. Are we on the same page here?’

  ‘Always, son.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that. So what do I tell my bosses? Only they’re just a tad anxious.’

  ‘Tell them I’m grateful.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s you they’re worrying about.’

  ‘Oh?’ The kitesurfer had just performed another miracle. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  Suttle told him to stop fucking about. Gehenna was eating money by the hour and no one seemed to have a clue where it might head next.

  ‘And does that include you, son?’

  ‘To be frank, yes. So just tell me where we are.’

  ‘We are where we always were.’

  ‘Stop talking in fucking riddles.’

  ‘I mean it. Mackenzie’s on the point of doing something very silly.’

  ‘To Skelley?’

  ‘No, son. To me. Just keep the obs on, yeah?’

  He ended the call. The kitesurfer, on his third jump, had blown it.

  The Pompey First campaign came to an end on the quayside opposite HMS Victory. The crowd had thinned a little, some of the older men peeling off to share a late-afternoon pint or two in one of the pubs en route. Bazza, on the promise of good behaviour plus a hefty whack of public money for heritage projects after a Pompey First triumph in tomorrow’s polls, negotiated half an hour’s access to the Historic Dockyard and led his swelling army towards the towering masts and yardarms of Nelson’s flagship.

  This, as every child in the city knew, was the spirit that badged Pompey. This was the flagship that had broken the French and Spanish lines one stormy October day off the coast near Cadiz. These were the guns that had sent broadside after crashing broadside into Pierre de Villeneuve’s fleet, splintering enemy decks, spilling enemy blood, breaking enemy spirits. The price, of course, had been high. Bazza found a bollard to stand on, gathering the crowd around him. He talked of generations of sacrifice – not just Nelson, but the thousands of other men and women who’d fallen in foreign wars, unknown, barely mentioned – and at the end he suggested a minute’s silence before calling for three rousing cheers. One for Nelson. One for the Wembley final. And the last for Pompey First.

  Kinder, watching the crowd flooding back towards the Victory Gate, shook his head in admiration.

  ‘We might not win –’ he offered Mackenzie his hand ‘– but what the fuck, eh?’

  Winter was under instructions to be at the Trafalgar by six o’clock. Irenka was due at seven but Mackenzie was expecting another guest around half six. Given the fact that Pavel Beginski was now dead, Winter had offered to cancel his sister, but Mackenzie wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted to meet this Irenka. He needed to have a chat. She might, he told Winter, have something unexpected to stick in the pot.

  Winter, pondering this latest development, made his way downstairs to the War Room. Mackenzie and Kinder were watching the BBC twenty-four-hour news channel. Kinder had his feet up on the conference table and was wearing what looked like a new T-shirt. Winter glanced at it. Over the left breast, surprisingly discreet, was the Spinnaker Tower Pompey First logo. Kinder leaned forward in his chair, showing Winter the back. Leo Kinder, it read, Vote Meister, 6th April–6th May 2010.

  ‘Yours is on the table, mush.’ Mackenzie nodded at a plastic bag. ‘A little something to remember us by.’

  There was another T-shirt in the bag, same logo. On the back it read, Paul Winter. Scheisse Meister. Same dates.

  ‘Shit-stirrer?’ Winter queried.

  ‘Something like that.’ Mackenzie nodded at the screen. ‘Look at Cleggie. What a muppet.’

  Winter helped himself to a chair and watched the coverage. The party leaders were winding up their separate campaigns and heading back to their constituencies for tomorrow’s vote. After a month on the road, thought Winter, they looked knackered.

  Minutes later Mackenzie took a call from reception. His visitors had arrived. With Winter in tow, Mackenzie mounted the stairs to the lobby. His guests had already moved on in search of a drink. Even back view, Winter recognised the tall bulky figure at the bar: the mane of jet-black combed-back hair, the sheer breadth of the man’s shoulders, the beautifully cut suit. Cesar Dobroslaw.

  Mackenzie was intercepting the proffered fifty-pound note. Drinks were on the house.

  ‘Cesar, meet a colleague of mine.’

  The sight of Winter drew the faintest smile from Dobroslaw. The last time the two men had met, Winter had paid the price for a piece of Bazza mischief that had badly misfired. The beating he’d taken that night belonged in the same mental drawer he reserved for Westie’s execution and the aborted Budva barbecue. Memories like that, thought Winter, probably lasted for ever.

  ‘This is Alan Chudleigh, my solicitor.’ Dobroslaw introduced a thin ill-looking man who’d settled for an orange juice. His rimless glasses gave him a slightly bookish air, and something about Mackenzie had already unnerved him.

  Mackenzie led the way through to the restaurant. At this time in the evening, still early, it was virtually deserted. The four of them sat down at the reserved table by the window. Chudleigh opened his briefcase and took out a slim Manila file. Winter stared at it. He hadn’t a clue what was going on.

  Mackenzie reached across and helped himself to the file. Inside was a sheaf of papers. He flicked quickly through them, then nodded.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Paul here can be witness.’

  ‘Witness to what?’

  Mackenzie didn’t answer. Instead, he reached inside his jacket pocket, unfolded a document and passed it to Chudleigh. Winter recognised Marie’s signature.

  ‘It’s an assignment, mush.’ Mackenzie was talking to Dobroslaw. ‘It gives me power to OK the deal on her behalf.’

  ‘Deal?’ Winter again.

  ‘Cesar here is helping me out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By taking over bits of the business. It needs someone else in the driving seat, mush. Someone with half a brain in their head.’

  He pushed the open Manila file towards Winter. Mackenzie’s signature would transfer the hotel, the house and Misty’s place on Hayling Island to Przyjemnosc Ltd, the company through which Dobroslaw did most of his business.

  ‘For how much?’ Winter looked up.

  ‘A quid. Most of it’s debt. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘No, mush, I’m skint. There’s a difference, eh, Cesar?’

  Dobroslaw was staring out of the window. His drink was untouched and he didn’t seem much interested in the conversation. Winter turned to his solicitor.

  ‘What about the rest of it? The stuff abroad? Businesses around the city?’

  ‘We’ve had a good look.’ Chudleigh had his pen ready for Mackenzie to sign. ‘But regrettably most of it’s rubbish, hopelessly over-leveraged. The properties we’ve bought will offer a good return in time, but I’m afraid the rest is a can of worms.’

  Winter nodded. He knew he was right but it was chilling to hear it spelled out with such frankness.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Mackenzie had been watching him carefully. ‘You’ve been telling me this for months.’

  ‘I have, Baz. But …’ he shrugged ‘… it needn’t end like this.’

  ‘No? You got any other ideas? Apart from kicking Skelley in the bollocks and nicking a million quid off him?’

  Winter said nothing. Mackenzie reached for Chudleigh’s pen and scribbled a signature at the foot of each page of the document. When he’d finished, Winter did the same. Dobroslaw was still inspecti
ng the view. Four years of graft, of deal-making, of helter-skelter madness, Winter thought. Gone.

  Mackenzie wanted to propose a toast. Winter assumed it would be to Pompey First but he was wrong.

  ‘Here’s to sunshine,’ Bazza said, ‘and all that lovely Efes.’

  Winter caught his eye. Efes was a premium Turkish beer available in – among other places – Northern Cyprus. The deal made sense now. Bazza was on his way out.

  Irenka arrived. Winter saw her first as she walked into the restaurant, unknotting her scarf as she made for the table by the window. Dobroslaw clocked her too, and for the first time a smile warmed his face. He got to his feet, his huge hands outstretched, then opened his arms for a hug.

  ‘Stephania.’ He was beaming now. ‘How long has it been?’

  Mackenzie’s eyes never left Winter’s face. Dobroslaw and Stephania were still on their feet. Dobroslaw’s delight was unfeigned. Stephania, despite her acting skills, couldn’t mask the panic in her eyes.

  Mackenzie beckoned Winter closer.

  ‘Irenka?’ he queried softly.

  Chapter twenty-eight

  PORTSMOUTH: THURSDAY, 6 MAY 2010

  Willard called a full Gehenna meet for half past midnight. The Covert Ops D/I had belled him on the secure line hours earlier. Irenka, his u/c, had been blown.

  ‘She grew up in Southampton,’ he told the faces round the table. ‘Belonged to a prominent Polish family. She was in the navy before she joined the Job and hasn’t been back to Southampton since, but these people have long memories. Dobroslaw’s the godfather. He knows everyone. Stephania did well for herself. Dobroslaw keeps up with stuff like that.’

  Willard wanted to know about the link with Mackenzie. The Covert Ops D/I said Bazza had recently tapped Dobroslaw up for a loan.

  ‘We should have known about that.’ Willard was looking at Suttle.

  ‘We did, sir. But no one expected the two to meet.’

  ‘Except Mackenzie. We’ve done this before, haven’t we?’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘Underestimated the man. A couple of hours down the line it all looks so simple, doesn’t it? He has to have a meet with Dobroslaw. He still thinks Irenka might be dodgy. He’s sussed there’s a Southampton connection. Game, set and fucking match. Jesus …’ He turned away in disgust.

  Parsons wanted to know about Winter. She put the question to Suttle. Had he been in touch?

  ‘He has, boss. He belled me about an hour ago.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was at home at Misty’s place. He was just going to bed.’

  ‘Lucky man.’ Willard had gone beyond anger. He couldn’t wait to bring this pantomime to a halt. ‘We’ve blown it completely,’ he said. ‘That man’s running rings round us.’

  ‘Winter?’

  ‘Mackenzie.’

  Suttle shook his head. ‘Winter doesn’t see it that way at all, sir.’

  ‘He doesn’t?’

  ‘No. He admits the Skelley thing’s gone tits up but says everything else is on track.’

  ‘Then he’s crazy.’

  ‘You might be right, sir. But from where I’m sitting we can’t afford to assume that.’

  This was brave talk. Heads turned around the table. Suttle was putting a great deal on the line.

  ‘Go on …’ Willard had stopped looking at his watch.

  ‘Number one, he’s certain Mackenzie is about to bail out. He’ll stick around for tonight’s count but after that he’s away.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He’s thrown in his hand. Most of the business is worthless. He sold the rest to Dobroslaw last night. For a quid. That’s his house, his hotel, Misty’s place. Winter says it was inevitable, had to happen, but it must have hurt like fuck. The man’s up to his eyes.’

  ‘Skint?’ Willard visibly brightened.

  ‘Totally boracic. Except there’ll be some kind of side deal because that’s the way Mackenzie works. This is Winter speaking, sir, not me.’

  ‘So where’s he going?’

  ‘Winter thinks Northern Cyprus, like I said this morning. Probably on Friday and probably with his wife.’

  ‘So how do we stop him?’

  ‘We can’t, sir. There’s nothing to charge him with. And once he’s gone, we can’t get him back.’

  There was a collective nod around the table. No extradition treaty existed with Northern Cyprus. Hence the endless beachside estates of wanted British criminals.

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’ Willard was still looking at Suttle.

  ‘It’s not me, sir. It’s Winter.’

  ‘Same difference, isn’t it?’

  ‘With respect, sir, no. Winter says he can spark Mackenzie up, make him do something very silly.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight. All he asks is that we keep obs in place.’

  ‘On?’

  ‘Mackenzie. He’ll be out and about all day. I assume he’ll end up at the Guildhall election count.’

  Willard nodded. Another day’s surveillance, given the sums already expended, wouldn’t break the bank.

  ‘So what’s the downside? What’s our exposure?’

  ‘You want an honest opinion?’

  ‘Don’t fuck around, son. Just tell me.’

  ‘Worst case, Winter ends up dead.’

  There was a brief silence. Then Willard wanted to know how.

  ‘Bazza kills him.’

  Willard sat back, digesting the news. Then came the first hint of a smile.

  ‘That’s worst case?’ he said.

  The meeting went on deep into the night. Willard, at last glimpsing the logic behind Winter’s confidence, wanted a Command Post established here in Parsons’ office. Gold commander would be Willard himself. Silver went to Det Supt Parsons. Bronze would fall to D/S Suttle. The surveillance teams, appropriately reinforced, would report to the Covert Ops D/I, who’d have a desk of his own in Parsons’ office. Comms, he said, would be the key to success. He needed a set-up flexible and responsive enough to give real-time overall command to the Gehenna management team.

  ‘What time does Winter anticipate kicking off this morning?’

  ‘Half past eight, sir. There’s a champagne breakfast at the hotel.’

  ‘And they’re still on speaking terms? Mackenzie and Winter?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what we never allowed for. Mackenzie’s being very grown-up. We thought he’d lose it. He hasn’t.’

  ‘Wrong. Winter thought he’d lose it. In fact he practically guaranteed it.’

  ‘You’re right, sir. And if it’s worth anything, he’s offered an apology. He admits he fucked up.’

  ‘And tonight? We get more of the same?’

  ‘He says tonight will be different.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘I do, sir, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he can’t afford to have it any other way.’

  ‘But that’s Mackenzie’s line, isn’t it? That’s why he’s behaving himself?’

  ‘Exactly, sir. Which is why we should wait and see.’

  ‘You mean take Winter at his word?’

  ‘I mean wait and see.’

  This first hint of caution wasn’t lost on Parsons. She was looking at Willard.

  ‘With respect, sir, I think we need the TFU on standby.’

  The Tactical Firearms Unit was based at Netley, a pocket army of tooled-up ninjas, guys who patrolled the fragile front line between operational prudence and something a great deal more direct.

  ‘You think that’s appropriate?’ Willard wasn’t convinced.

  ‘I do, sir. Winter knows Mackenzie better than most. Personally I’m amazed he’s still in there pitching for us.’

  ‘So am I, Gail.’ Willard was looking at Suttle. ‘And you have to ask yourself why.’

  Misty Gallagher slept badly. For long periods of the night she lay awake, aware of Winter tossing and turning beside her. Sometimes she thought of Trude
spending her last night in the Spinal Unit, and she wondered what kind of life awaited them all once she got home. At other times she tried to imagine this new future of theirs out in Croatia, what kind of arrangements Winter had really made, whether or not this awkward threesome, complicated by Trude’s injury, could easily adapt to a couple of years on the Adriatic coast. Once or twice she reached across to Winter, alarmed at how clammy and unsettled he was, and when his eyes finally opened, shortly after dawn, she hung over him, whispering in the half-darkness.

  ‘What’s the matter, pet? You’re dripping wet.’

  ‘Nothing, Mist.’ He sniffed, reached for his watch. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not. Something’s wrong. What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Zilch. You want tea?’ He pulled back the duvet, reached for his dressing gown and made for the door. Then he seemed to have second thoughts. Back in bed, he took Misty in his arms and gave her a long hug.

  ‘I love you, Mist, I really do. I just wanted to say it.’

  She returned his kiss and then held him at arm’s length.

  ‘Christ …’ she couldn’t hide her alarm ‘… it must be serious.’

  The champagne breakfast at the Trafalgar was a subdued affair. At Kinder’s insistence, Mackenzie agreed to hold it in the War Room. Makins turned up in a taxi Mackenzie had dispatched, and to no one’s surprise Gill Reynolds was with him. Bazza himself served scrambled eggs and bacon from the kitchen while Marie circled with the Moët. Kinder had shipped in a couple of extra TV screens, offering a choice of live election coverage, but there was a strange sense of anticlimax as they watched a long succession of Establishment worthies placing their votes.

  For four long weeks Pompey First had fought tooth and nail to upset the political order, and the unvoiced suspicion around the table was that nothing would probably change. More meaningless promises about non-essential budget cuts. More stern warnings about holes in the national coffers. The usual bollocks about Whitehall and Westminster stepping aside to give the locals a fighting chance.

  In the end it was Gill Reynolds who put this feeling into words. She’d spent the last week or so working on the special post-election supplement for the News, and this exercise had made her realise how much sheer graft had gone into the BazzaMac campaign. If democracy didn’t deliver the right result in Pompey North, she said, then it was no fault of Pompey First.