The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Winter introduced himself. He’d decided on the word ‘consultant’.

  ‘Consultant to whom?’

  ‘Beaver UK.’ He used the name of one of Bazza’s many companies.

  McCall roared with laughter. ‘Mackenzie? You’re in with him?’

  ‘He’s my client,’ Winter said stiffly.

  ‘And he pays you? Christ, that’s a first.’

  Winter ignored the dig. He wanted to know what lay behind Harbour Events. McCall was happy to oblige.

  ‘I’m a facilitator,’ he explained, ‘… a midwife, if you like. People come to me with ideas. I put them in touch with other people who might be able to help. I give their little boat a push, and once they’re all set up and ship-shape, they sail away.’

  He mentioned the Whitbread Round-the-World Race. Back in 1997 he’d organised the departure from Southampton. On that occasion he’d been working directly for Whitbread and he’d been rather more hands-on.

  ‘But why did you give it to the Scummers?’

  ‘Because they were up for it. Ocean Village was perfect. Terrific backdrop. The event went like a dream. It’s all turned to ratshit since, of course, which is why we brought the Global Challenge here last year.’

  He waved a languid hand towards the window. Beyond the forest of masts in the marina Winter caught a glimpse of the ferry returning to the Pompey side of the harbour.

  ‘Brilliant. So you ended up stuffing the bastards?’

  ‘The Scummers? Big time.’

  McCall shot Winter a grin. Scummers was Pompey-speak for anyone who’d had the misfortune to be born in Southampton, and the very word was enough to start a riot in certain Pompey pubs. On the football pitch, and elsewhere, no victory was ever sweeter.

  Winter began to talk about Bazza’s determination to organise some kind of jet ski race. To his amazement, McCall appeared to take him seriously.

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘In fact it’s a corker.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. And you’re right about QHM. In fact he’s become a bit of a convert.’

  ‘So you think it’s do-able?’

  ‘Of course.’ He gazed at Winter, puzzled. ‘Don’t you?’

  Aliyah Begum turned up at Kingston Crescent in the late afternoon. She gave her name and asked for D/C Yates. Yates, who’d visited the escort agency earlier, was out on another action and so the call from the front desk finally made its way to Faraday. En route to fetch her from downstairs, he put his head round Suttle’s door.

  ‘Join me in my office,’ he said. ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’

  Aliyah Begum was even younger than Faraday had expected. Under the lip gloss and the Western-style trouser suit she could easily have passed as Mallinder’s daughter. She accompanied him back upstairs. She had a flat Midlands accent and a nervous habit of playing with the gold bangles on her wrist. Suttle joined them.

  By now Faraday had realised that no one had told her about Mallinder. He broke the news with a wooden-ness that took Suttle by surprise. Aliyah stared at them, aghast, her eyes going from one face to the other.

  ‘Why?’ she managed at last.

  ‘It’s a good question,’ Faraday conceded. ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘But …’ She was still trying to understand, still trying to make sense of this appalling news.

  ‘He was shot,’ Faraday said, ‘the night before last. We think it probably happened around three, four o’clock in the morning.’ He paused, letting the implications sink in. Suttle reached for his pad. ‘How long have you known Mr Mallinder?’

  ‘A month. Maybe longer. Say six weeks.’

  ‘And how did that come about?’

  ‘He phoned the agency. They sent a book of photos round. He chose me.’ She said it with a hint of pride.

  ‘And you went to see him?’

  ‘Yes, that same night. He wanted full service. We had sex. He was nice. I liked him.’

  ‘And you went back? Regularly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you ever stay the night?’

  ‘No. I could have done but it would have cost a lot more money.’

  ‘Did he ever ask you to stay the night?’

  ‘No. Usually I stayed for about an hour. That was all he wanted.’

  ‘And he never asked for anyone else?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, failing to hide the flash of anger in her eyes. Faraday saw it. So did Suttle.

  ‘Did he ever give you a key?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Did you become friends?’

  ‘No.’ She was playing with the bangles again. ‘You think sometimes you could be friends. Maybe you’d like to be friends. But no, not in that situation.’

  ‘But you talked?’

  ‘Of course we talked. We’re not animals.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘His family. Mine sometimes.’

  ‘And did you get the impression he was happy? At home?’

  ‘Very. He showed me photos of them all. He had lovely kids. A lovely wife, too. He was a lucky man.’

  ‘And yet …’ Faraday shrugged ‘… he needed you.’

  ‘Of course. It happens a lot. Especially with men like him away from home.’

  ‘And business? Did you ever talk about that?’

  She glanced at Suttle. Then her eyes found Faraday again.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because it might be important.’ Faraday paused, waiting for an answer, then carried on. ‘Did you know what he did for a living?’

  ‘A little. He bought and sold land, I think.’

  ‘That’s right. So let me ask you the question again. Did you ever talk about any of that?’

  Her head went down. She knotted her fingers.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last.

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘He wanted to know about a couple of places in Southsea. One was a kind of grocery. The other was a restaurant. He thought I might be able to help.’

  ‘Why? Why you?’

  ‘Because they were both Bengali, these places.’

  ‘And did you help?’

  This time she was determined not to answer. Faraday let the silence stretch and stretch. Finally, with a glance at Suttle, he ran out of patience.

  ‘Mr Mallinder is dead,’ he said softly. ‘Somebody killed him. We need to find that somebody and to do that we need people like you to help us. We’ve got a choice here. We can all go down to another police station. We call it the Bridewell. We can arrest you. Caution you. Get you a lawyer. Or we can just carry on here, just as we are. It’s your choice.’

  ‘Arrest me for what?’ She was looking alarmed.

  ‘Obstructing the course of justice. It’s a serious offence. Think about it.’

  She nodded, studied her nails for a moment or two. Her nails were purple, embellished with tiny silver stars. Finally, her head came up.

  ‘I told him that I’d ask around, make some enquiries.’

  ‘What did he want to know?’

  ‘He wanted to find out whether, you know, the business was good at these places.’

  ‘You mean successful?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He never said.’

  ‘And what did you find out?’

  ‘I found out …’ she ran her tongue over her lips then swallowed hard ‘… that business wasn’t good.’

  ‘And you told him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he still didn’t explain why?’

  ‘No.’

  Faraday shot a look at Suttle. The next question was obvious.

  ‘Did you get the impression he’d asked you to do this because you were Asian yourself?’ asked Suttle. ‘Because you’d have contacts? Family ties?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And do you think that’s why he chose you? From all the other girls?�
��

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Were there other Asian girls in the book?’

  ‘No. I’m the only one.’

  ‘So how did that make you feel?’

  ‘It made no difference.’ She shrugged. ‘He paid the money. I think I made him happy.’

  Suttle nodded. He didn’t doubt that for a moment. Faraday took over again.

  ‘The background you come from … here in Portsmouth … it’s pretty tight, isn’t it? People are pretty close? People know each other? Families worship together? Get together in the mosque?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘So word would get around?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what you do for a living.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Surely not maybe. Definitely.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She shrugged again.

  There was a long silence. Then Suttle stirred.

  ‘So what do your parents think about what you do for a living?’

  ‘My parents are in Leicester.’

  ‘So where do you live?’

  ‘In a flat in Southsea. With some other girls.’

  ‘Asian girls?’

  ‘No, English.’

  ‘So you’ve no family here? Is that what you’re saying? ’

  She looked at Suttle for a long time. Then she shook her head.

  ‘Of course I’ve got family here. Extended family. Distant cousins. Aunts. Uncles. That’s how it is in our culture. We have family everywhere.’

  Faraday bent forward in his chair. They were close to an admission this girl was clearly dreading.

  ‘So they’d be upset …’ he suggested ‘… if they found out about you … about what you do. Am I right?’

  She nodded. Her voice was low. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if they saw this man, this white businessman, come calling? At the grocery store? At the restaurant? And if they realised that he was your client? And that you’d been nosing around, asking questions on his account? How would they feel then?’

  ‘They wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t like it? Surely it’s stronger than that. Surely they’d hate it. They’d hate what you do. And they’d hate all the other liberties this man was taking. Am I right?’

  She nodded, said nothing. Faraday asked for the addresses of the two properties and with some reluctance she obliged. She also supplied her own address and mobile number. Finally, when it was plain that the interview was over, she stood up.

  ‘The man at the agency was right,’ she said in the same small voice. ‘He told me I was mad to come here.’

  Faraday studied her for a moment. Then he shrugged.

  ‘We’d have found you anyway,’ he said.

  Five

  WEDNESDAY, 6 SEPTEMBER 2006. 20.27

  Winter had settled on the Duke of Buckingham for his meet with Jimmy Suttle. It was a decent, well-run pub in Old Portsmouth, attracting an evening crowd of young professionals, the occasional teacher from the grammar school across the road and quietly spoken retired couples taking advantage of the midweek supper offers. No one from Bazza’s entourage would dream of setting foot in there.

  Winter bought a pint of Stella and made himself comfortable at a table at the back of the bar. He’d acquired a paper from the shop up the road and a major report on one of the inside pages tallied developments in the city’s latest murder hunt. Winter was still admiring a grainy shot of Faraday hurrying into the nick at Kingston Crescent when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

  ‘Top up?’ Jimmy Suttle was looking at his half-empty glass.

  ‘Why not.’ Winter showed him the paper. ‘This one of yours?’

  Suttle glanced at the article. ‘Yeah.’

  He fetched the drinks from the bar and settled into the spare chair. He looks older, Winter thought. More settled. More confident. More cautious.

  ‘Go on then …’ Winter nodded at the newspaper.

  Suttle ignored the invitation to share the secrets of Billhook. He reached for his drink and swallowed a mouthful. To Winter it looked like shandy. Bad sign.

  ‘So how have you been?’ Suttle wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘How’s life on the Dark Side?’

  ‘I’m not with you, son.’

  ‘You’re working with Mackenzie, the way I hear it. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah …’ Winter nodded, ‘… In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am.’

  ‘He pays you? You take his money?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So they’re true then, these rumours?’

  ‘Yeah. Except …’ Winter paused, frowned, looking for another word.

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Except nothing. You’re right. It’s true. I run the odd errand. I make the odd suggestion. It’s what you do in my situation, unless you want to sit at home all day and climb the walls.’

  ‘What about a real job? What about working for some brief? Delivering writs? Making notes in court? Just like every other ex-copper?’

  ‘I didn’t fancy it, son. And the pay’s crap.’

  ‘He pays well, then? Mackenzie?’

  ‘Well enough.’ Winter had barely touched his glass since Suttle had arrived. ‘You sound pissed off, son.’

  ‘Not pissed off. Just disappointed.’

  ‘Disappointed? How does that work?’

  ‘Easy. It’s about Mackenzie. The man’s a scumbag. So are the people who run with him. Take the bastard out and this would be a decent city to live in.’

  ‘That’s bollocks, son,’ Winter said mildly. ‘Take Mackenzie out and we’d be back to the days when the place looked like Beirut. Where do you think the money for all these flash refurbs comes from? The café-bars? The seafront hotels? You think all that money comes from the government? From the Good Fairy? Mackenzie’s a suit these days. He’s a face, a player. He spends money. He invests. He turns half-arsed businesses around. He creates jobs for young kids. He makes life in this shithole just a little bit more pleasant.’

  ‘So we’re lucky to have him? Is that it? Only I remember the days when you couldn’t wait to put him away.’

  ‘That was then. This is now. And now, son, is too late.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because the guy’s made it. Because he’s king of the castle. Because there isn’t a solicitor or an accountant or a councillor or anyone else with a bit of clout in this city who’d say a bad word against him. Bazza’s home safe, son. He’s out of reach. We’ve lost him.’

  ‘That’s pathetic.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Me. And you know why? Because the day we chuck the towel in over Bazza is the day we might as well chuck the towel in for good. The bloke’s bent. He’ll always be bent. And the way it is now we’re sending a fucking great message to every toerag kid in this city. You know what that message is? Forget school. Forget exams. Bent pays.’

  ‘I’m afraid it does.’ Winter nodded. ‘It’s a fact of life, son.’

  ‘Fact of life? What happened to you, Paul? What happened in that head of yours? Maybe it was that surgeon over in Phoenix. Maybe he took out more than he should have done. Maybe it’s not your fault, not your doing. Maybe I should tell all the blokes at work that you’re not the lying devious scumbag who sold out to Bazza Mackenzie. You know what they’re saying now? They’re saying it’s no surprise, what you’re up to. They’re saying you’ve been at it for years.’

  ‘With Mackenzie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you? What do you think?’

  ‘I’m going with the surgeon theory. I think he made a mistake. I think you’re clinically deranged.’ He suddenly bent forward and touched glasses. ‘Cheers, you bent old bastard.’

  Winter, with some relief, swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of Stella. He wanted to know about the Port Solent job, about life on Major Crimes, about Faraday. Suttle looked at him, amused now, no longer angry.

  ‘You sound like you miss it.’

  ‘I do. Of
course I do. Not all of it. Not all the PC bollocks about risk assessments and approach strategies. But this …’ He tapped the newspaper. ‘Yeah, of course I miss it.’

  Suttle told him a little about Mallinder’s death. Professional job. Middle of the night. Single shot to the head. Couple of promising lines of enquiry.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Can’t say, mate.’ He shook his head, changing the subject. ‘You remember Terry Byrne? Scouse headcase?’

  ‘Pennington Road? Couple of pit bulls? Wraps of smack at a fiver each?’

  ‘That’s him. Except it’s not smack any more, or not just smack. The bloke’s into the laughing powder, big time. We had a D/I down from Devon and Cornwall, a real looker. They’d got intel on Byrne, fuck knows where from, but they’d put him alongside a couple of kilos headed for the West Country. She’s after nicking the courier on the way home, got the whole thing plotted up, but that’s not really the point, is it? What’s your new boss doing? Letting psychos like Byrne get away with that kind of weight?’

  ‘Two kilos?’ Winter began to laugh. Then he reached across and gave Suttle a pat on the arm. ‘This is kosher?’

  ‘So she said.’

  ‘And is that why you’ve come? You want to send Bazza a message?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m just curious. I thought you might be in a position to know.’

  ‘I know nothing. If you want the truth, he’s put me in charge of some wank idea involving jet skis. You know what the bloke’s like. He chucks you a bone, tells you to get on with it. Except this bone’s fucking enormous.’

  ‘Jet skis?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He told Suttle about Mark’s accident, the trip out to Cambados for the funeral and Bazza’s absolute determination to come up with some kind of memorial. At first he’d assumed the Mackenzie Trophy was a joke. Now he knew different.

  Suttle was fascinated. He wanted to know more about the trip to Spain.

  ‘So you’re socialising with all these guys, Bazza’s lot - drinking with them, eating with them, partying with them … how does that work?’

  ‘It doesn’t. They know who I am. They still take the piss. And I do, back. Bazza would like us all to be mates, I can see him trying to work on that, but it’ll never happen. You’re right, son. Do what I’ve done all those years and you’re lumbered.’