"Austen Bridger, isn't it?" Winter was peering at a bulky, scarlet-faced figure in slacks and a Pringle sweater.
"That's right. Plays off seven. Unbeatable on his day. Look at this, though. Here…" Mackenzie dug around in a drawer, then produced a scorecard and insisted Winter take a look. "Three birdies and an eagle. Cost him dinner at Mon Plaisir, that did. Foie gras, turbot, Chablis, the lot. Marie gave me serious grief for weeks after."
He retrieved the scorecard and gazed at it while Winter's eyes returned to the cork board. Austen Bridger was a solicitor with a booming out-of-town practice in a new suite of offices in Port Solent. He specialised in property and development deals, high-end stuff, and had the executive toys to prove it. Away from the golf course, he sailed a 350,000 racing yacht which regularly featured in the columns of the News. Another winner.
Mackenzie was on his feet now, ash-grey track-suit and ne wish-looking Reeboks. He began to poke through the photos on the cork board, hunting for a particular shot.
"Here." He unpinned it. "Dubai at Christmas. Can't do too much for you out there. Marie loved it. See that ramp thing in the background?"
Winter was looking at a beach shot. Mackenzie and his wife were posed against the brilliant blue of the sea. Marie was an inch or two taller than her husband and for a middle-aged woman, bikini-clad, she was in remarkable nick.
"What ramp thing?"
"There. Look." Mackenzie tapped the photograph. "It's for water skiing. Day one you get to stand up. Day two you go tearing off round the bay. Day three they tell you about jumping and ramps and stuff, and day four you get to cack yourself. Amazing experience. You ever done it?"
"Never."
"Brilliant. Some blokes do it backwards. Backwards, can you believe that? Can't wait, mate. Still on the Scotch, are you?"
Without waiting for an answer, he went across to a filing cabinet and produced a bottle of Glenfiddich from the top drawer. A glass came from a table in the corner. It was down to Winter to pour.
"You?" Winter was looking at the single glass.
"Not for me."
"Why not?"
"Given up."
"You're serious?"
"Yeah, just for now. I'm nosey, if you want the truth. I've spent so much time pissed, all this is a bit of a novelty." He waved a hand around, a gesture that seemed to have no geographical limit, then he settled back behind the desk, a man with important news to impart. "You know something about this city, something really weird? It's about the way you look at it. As a nipper, you just do your thing, head down, get on with it. A little bit older, you follow your dick. A bit older still, you maybe get married, all that stuff. But you know your place, right? Because everything's bigger than you are. Then, if you're lucky, you wake up one morning and there it is, there for the taking."
"What?"
"The city. Pompey. And you know why? Because this place is tiny. Get to know maybe a coupla dozen guys, the right coupla dozen, and there's nothing you can't do. Nothing. We're not talking bent, we're just talking deals, one bloke to another. And you know something else? It's easy. Easier than you can ever believe. Suss how it's done, make the right friends, and you start wondering why every other bastard isn't doing it too."
"So what does that make you?"
"Lucky." He reached for a paper clip and began to unbend it as he elaborated on this new world of limitless opportunities. How one deal led to another. How business could breed some genuine friendships. How wrong he'd been about some of the middle-class blokes he'd always had down as wankers. Fact was, a lot of them were hard bastards, knew how to live with risk, knew how to party. Collars and ties, in the end, were nothing but camouflage.
"Know what I mean?"
Winter nodded, his eyes returning to the cork board. Then he took a long swallow of Glenfiddich, the drift of this sudden outburst of Mackenzie's slowly slipping into focus. The city, he was saying, had become his plaything, the train set of his dreams. He could alter the layout, mess with the signalling, change the points, play God.
A smile warmed Winter's face. Bazza Mackenzie, he thought. The Bent Controller.
Mackenzie was on his feet again, restless. He'd found another photo, framed this time: a young bride on her wedding day, beaming out at the world.
"You hear about my Esme? Pregnant. As of last week. That makes me a grandfather. Sweet, eh?"
"Must be. I wouldn't know."
"Shit, I forgot." He paused, looking down at Winter, then patted him on the shoulder the way you might comfort a sick dog. "Sorry about your missus, mate. A while back, wasn't it?"
"Two years ago next September." Winter gazed at his glass for a moment, wondering how Bazza had got to know about Joannie. Then his head came up again. "You must be proud of her."
"Who?"
"Esme. Not just the baby, everything else."
"Yeah, definitely. The girl's done well. Most of that's down to Marie if you want the truth, but that doesn't stop me being silly about her, does it? She called up tonight, matter of fact. She'll be through with uni this year and she's looking for chambers to take her on. Turns out some shit-hot briefs in town have offered her a pupil lage if her degree turns out OK. Couldn't wait to tell us."
"And the baby?"
"Fuck knows. I'm putting it down for Winchester the moment it appears."
"The nick?"
"The school." Mackenzie barked with laughter. "Marie's idea. Put a bit of class back in the family. Women these days, do it all, don't they?"
Winter was thinking about Misty Gallagher. Her role in Mackenzie's life was common knowledge amongst a certain slice of Portsmouth life.
So where did she figure on the cork board?
Mackenzie dismissed the question with a shrug.
"Silly girl, Mist. Can't take a joke. Shame, really." He looked morose for a moment, then visibly brightened. "Don't want a nice harbour side apartment, do you? Yours for seven hundred grand."
"You've put it on the market?" Winter feigned amazement.
"Yeah. Wait a week, and you'll be looking at seven fifty. View like that, they'll be queuing for it."
"And Trudy?"
Trude'll be OK. She's a survivor, that girl. Has to be, living with Mist."
"I thought she was tucked up with Mike Valentine?"
"No way. Mike's got a bob or two, saw her right, but he's old, isn't he? Trude's a kid. Doesn't want some wrinkly like Mike."
"Or us."
"Yeah."
"Or Dave Pullen."
Mackenzie didn't answer. The temperature in the room seemed to plunge.
After all the joshing, all the catching-up, Winter had bent to Mackenzie's train set and thrown the points.
Mackenzie was staring at Winter. In certain moods, he had the blackest eyes.
"Is that what this is about, then? Mr. Dave fucking Pullen?"
"Partly, yes."
"Well don't worry about that arse-wipe. He's taken care of."
"Since when?" Winter was genuinely surprised.
"Since' Mackenzie glanced at his Rolex 'about an hour ago. What else do you want to know?"
Winter was eyeing the bottle. Glenfiddich wasn't quite his favourite malt but under circumstances like these it would certainly do. He splashed a generous measure into his glass and swirled it round. With people like Mackenzie, it sometimes paid to keep them waiting.
"My bosses have got this thing about law and disorder," he said at last. "Keeping it private, keeping it out of sight, is one thing. What Chris Talbot did at the railway station was something else."
"Like what?
"Like stupid. And like unnecessary."
"Says you."
"Says my bosses. And they've got a point, too. If you can't run a business without pulling those kinds of strokes, then maybe you ought to let someone else have a go."
Mackenzie hated criticism. With the sole exception of his wife, people never talked to him like this. He'd visibly stiffened behind the desk.
All the chummin
ess, all the little flurries of wit, had gone. Winter, aware that this conversation had to deliver some kind of truce, tried to coax a smile.
"Think of me as the poor fucker in no-man's-land," he began. "I'm waiving the book of rules. I'm here to tell you to cool it. Call off the dogs, ignore the Scousers, and it'll be business as usual."
"Rules bollocks." Mackenzie was angry now. "If your bosses are so fucking keen on business as usual, then how come they're trying to put me away? Talking to the bank? To my accountant? Sticking blokes across the road in clapped-out Fiestas?" He paused for long enough to let Winter raise an eyebrow. "You think I don't know about all that shit? Operation Tumbril? Three men and a dog banged up on Whale Island? You go back and tell them they haven't got a prayer. Not a fucking prayer. And you know why? Because I can afford the kind of advice they'd only ever dream about. And you know something else?" He jabbed a finger at the photos on the cork board. "That advice is kosher, legit, paid-for. Problem with you blokes is you're either skint or looking the wrong way when the big deals go down." He was on the edge of his chair now, leaning forward across the desk. "A little word in your ear, my friend. Watch the press."
"The local press?"
"Absolutely. Give it a couple of days and we might be able to put this conversation in perspective. Big announcement. Major acquisition.
Hundreds of grand." He nodded, belligerent, proud of himself. "You know what really pisses me off about you lot? A bloke comes along and works his arse off for this city, pours in millions, one-man fucking regeneration agency for that poxy Osborne Road, and what does he get for his troubles? Operation fucking Tumbril. How's that for gratitude, then? No wonder this city's halfway down the khazi."
Winter tried to hide his smile. Not only did Mackenzie believe all this stuff but most of it was probably true. Add a recently purchased kitchen equipment shop to his cafe-bars and tanning salons, and this man was transforming Osborne Road. Drugs money or otherwise, the heart of Southsea would be shabbier without the likes of Bazza Mackenzie.
"Just think about it," Winter said quietly. "That's all we're saying."
"What's this "we", then? They ask you to come here?"
"They?"
"Those fucking bosses of yours."
"Of course they didn't. It's called initiative. Went out the window years ago."
"And if they knew you were here?"
"Major bollocking. Either that, or another form to fill in. Listen, Baz, I'm just telling you, marking your card. Chasing Scouse kids round the city just isn't worth the hassle. Some people hate the sight of blood. You'd be amazed."
"That's not the point. What else am I supposed to do? Dial treble nine? Come running to you lot? My line of work, it's just that."
"Just what?"
"Business. Blokes try and muscle in, we give them a hiding. Same with Pullen. Twat like him messes with Trude, he knows exactly what to expect. That's the thing about us." The laugh again, abrupt, challenging. "We're dead straight. What you see is what you get."
Mackenzie nodded towards the door. The gesture was Winter's cue to leave. Back on his feet, he drained the last of the malt and buttoned his coat. Mackenzie came round the desk. Close to, Winter suspected he'd begun to use blond tint on his hair.
"Another thing about young Trude." Mackenzie wasn't smiling.
"Yeah?"
"Don't even think about it, OK?"
"Me?"
"Any of you guys."
Winter nodded, giving the threat due respect, then paused beside the door.
"One thing I need to know, Baz." He nodded at the curtained window.
"What's that?"
"Why green gels?"
"Ah…" Mackenzie touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Colour of envy, mate."
Trudy lay on her side, her head supported on her elbow, her hair tumbling over Suttle's face.
"Going to sleep on me?"
"Yeah."
"You were brilliant. You're allowed."
"Thanks."
"I mean it." She wetted her forefinger and traced a love heart across his naked chest. "What about me, then. OK, was I?"
"I've had worse."
"Bastard." She leaned over him and retrieved a copy of FHM from the carpet beside the bed. "What's this, then?"
Suttle opened one eye and found himself looking at a familiar photo spread of Jennifer Lopez.
"Forget it," he mumbled. "You'd fuck her out of sight."
"You mean that?"
"Definitely. Except she's the one with the money." He snatched at the magazine, then tossed it across the tiny bedroom. "There's half a bottle of white in the fridge, if you fancy it."
"You get it."
"You're closest."
There was a stir of cold air as she pulled back the covers. Suttle heard the soft pad of her footsteps on the stairs and the distinctive click as she opened the fridge door. Seconds later, she was back in beside him. The way her flesh goose pimpled reminded him of the night they'd found her trussed to the bed in Bystock Road.
"You first." She'd only found one glass.
"No, you."
He watched her sipping the wine and realised he hadn't been so happy for months. It can't be this simple, he kept telling himself. This easy.
She offered him the glass. When he reached out for it, she shook her head and dipped a finger before slipping it into his mouth. He sucked it for a moment, then asked for more. She smiled at him in the half darkness and Suttle caught the chink of glass as she lodged the glass beside the bottle on the cluttered bedside table.
"I meant more wine."
"I know you did."
"You're outrageous."
"Yeah?" She was straddling him now, her breath warm on his face. "Tell me something."
"What?"
"Just say I had lots of money. Pots of it."
"And?"
"Would you come away with me? Seriously, would you?"
"Come away where?"
"Dunno." She nuzzled his cheek for a moment and then began to lick his ear. "Wherever you like, really. Abroad? America? Thailand? Oz?
Don't care."
"You mean for a holiday?"
"Whatever."
"Not a holiday?"
"Doesn't matter. Just you and me."
Suttle gazed up at her for a moment and then tried to struggle free, but Trudy was stronger than she looked.
"I've got you." She began to giggle. "And you still haven't answered the question."
Faraday was on the way to Eadie Sykes's apartment when his mobile began to chirp. It was Willard. Faraday pulled the Mondeo into a parking space on the se afront and killed the engine.
"You called," Willard grunted. "If it's about that boy of yours, forget it."
"Forget what, sir?"
"Whatever you were going to tell me. As I understood it, no charges have been laid. Police bail pending further inquiries. Am I right?"
"Yes, but the point is ' "Wrong, Joe. There is no point. Nothing has changed unless you're telling me you want out, and even then you'd have to have a bloody good excuse." He paused. "As I understand it, there's fuck-all evidence against the boy, not when it comes to a serious charge. Anything else?"
Faraday stared into the darkness beyond the promenade. A late car ferry was heading out towards the Isle of Wight, leaving a long, white tail of churning water. Just how could he voice the thousand and one questions J-J had left in his own wake? About gullibility? About other people taking advantage? And most important of all about the sudden gap that had opened up between father and son? None of these issues was of the remotest relevance to Tumbril, and Willard doubtless knew it.
"Nothing else, sir."
"Good. Heard from Wallace yet?"
"No. I left a message."
"Bell me when he rings. Doesn't matter how late."
"Of course."
Minutes later, he let himself into Eadie's apartment building. Up on the third floor, the door to her flat was open, and Faraday caught the breathles
s tones of the BBC newscaster while he was still on the stairs. Coalition forces were attacking the Iraqi port of Umm Qasr.
Preliminary reports from the advancing columns of armour suggested that the city's defenders were on the point of surrender. Tony Blair, meanwhile, had returned from an EU summit to stiffen the nation's resolve.
Faraday walked into the flat. Eadie was stretched on the sofa, engrossed in the news report, the remains of a takeout curry on a tray on her lap. After a while, Faraday moved into her eye line "Hi." She barely looked up.
"Hi." Faraday stared down at her. He'd rarely felt angrier. "Are we going to talk or shall I come back later?"
"Give me a minute, OK?" She nodded at the screen. "Then you can get it all off your chest."
"No." Faraday shook his head and reached for the zapper. When he couldn't find the mute button, he turned the whole set off. Eadie was about to react, then had second thoughts. There were a couple of tinnies in the fridge. Maybe, for the sake of his blood pressure, a cold Stella might be wise.
Faraday ignored the suggestion.
"You knew," he said thickly. "You knew this morning and you didn't tell me."
"Knew what?"
"That the kid was dead."
"Ah… young Daniel." She nodded. "My apologies. Mea fucking culpa."
"So is that it?" Faraday couldn't believe his ears. "You step into this kid's life, drag my son with you, tape the lad while he kills himself, and leave him to die? Endgame? Finito? Too bad?"
"You're being dramatic' "Dramatic? The boy's dead, Eadie. That's big time. We cops sometimes call it murder. In fact, this afternoon they very nearly did."
"They?"
"Yes, they. Thanks to you, I've just spent a couple of hours trying to keep my son out of the remand wing at Winchester prison. That might mean nothing to you but I'm telling you now it made a very big hole in my day."
"I know."
"You know} How do you know?"
"J-J told me. There's not a lot you can get into a text but I caught the drift."
"What did he say?"
"He said you tried to shut him up. You and a lawyer."
"He's right. We did."
"And he said he thought that was bullshit. So he went right ahead and told them the way it had been."
"That's right, too. Completely reckless."
"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "So how come he's still a free man?"
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