The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  At Southampton Central Winter changed trains. The Bournemouth connection was coming down from Waterloo. According to the electronic boards, it was already fifteen minutes late. Easily time for a coffee.

  Winter strolled into the buffet, eyeing the mirror behind the counter. The heavy was outside on the platform, buried in a copy of the Daily Star, nicely positioned to keep tabs on his target. Winter toyed with the idea of buying him a latte, striking up a conversation, reminiscing about the old days, but decided against it. Ten to one the guy had no sense of humour.

  The Bournemouth train finally arrived. Winter boarded a carriage near the end, no longer bothering to check along the platform. In this situation it paid to trust the arrangements, and after this morning’s conversation on the phone he didn’t anticipate any glitches.

  He settled peaceably into a seat by the window to watch the endless panorama of the docks unfold. He’d always had a sneaking affection for Southampton, something he was careful to keep to himself, and to him the essence of the city lay here, in the huge cruise liners moored alongside, in the towering cranes and big slab-sided container ships. The containers themselves were stacked high beside the track, a solid wall of oblong boxes, and it fascinated him to think of each of them stuffed to the brim with hi-tech toasters and two-grand plasma screens, and all the other toys that kept the nation so content. The Asians had life cracked, he thought ruefully. Knock this stuff out for tuppence a shot and someone on the other side of the world will pay you a fortune for it.

  The docks thinned. Then the train clattered over a bridge and after a last glimpse down Southampton Water they were heading for the New Forest. Winter sat back and closed his eyes, wondering what the next couple of hours would bring. He’d met this woman just once in his life, a month or so before Christmas, and he’d disliked her on sight. She was tiny, with a mop of ginger curls and a huge chest. She’d come down from the north, Lancashire somewhere, and was said to have ambitions way beyond D/I.

  He’d heard that the regulars on Covert Ops avoided her like a bad smell, blanking her jokes and leaving her out of the coffee runs to the machine down the corridor. It didn’t pay to be too leery when it came to working alongside a new guvnor but Winter gathered that they were in no danger of any kind of comeback because this woman was too thick to realise what they thought of her. She talked a good war, everyone said, but when the bullets started flying she was fucking useless. Given the importance of her role in this new life of his, Winter was less than reassured.

  At Bournemouth he took his time waiting for a cab. When the queue had gone, he hailed a silver Peugeot, knowing that there were three more rides waiting on the rank. When the driver asked him where he wanted to go, he gave his new minder a decent chance to get into the car behind before fumbling in his pocket and producing the appointments card.

  ‘Bournemouth Royal, mate,’ he said, settling back.

  The hospital was ten minutes away. The cab dropped Winter at the main entrance. He paid the driver and ambled in. The reception desk was busy. He joined the queue, aware of his minder lurking outside the League of Friends shop barely feet away. When Winter’s turn came at the reception desk, he shot the woman a smile and asked for the Department of Oncology.

  ‘Just a check-up in case it’s come back, love,’ he said loudly, tapping his head. ‘At least that’s what they’re telling me.’

  The department was on the third floor. Winter took the lift, no longer bothering to keep his minder in tow. The man had all the information he needed. Doubtless Bazza would be thrilled. Hospital visit, boss. Totally routine.

  The door to the consultant’s office was guarded by a secretary in a rather severe two-piece suit. She took Winter’s name, consulted a typed list at her elbow and asked him to take a seat. Winter was halfway through an article on stag weekends in Slovakia when a nurse appeared.

  ‘This way, Mr Winter.’

  Winter followed her back out into the corridor. There was no sign of his minder. The nurse paused at a door marked Private, knocked twice and stepped in. Winter followed her. D/I Gale Parsons was sitting behind a desk cluttered with medical journals. Give her a white jacket, Winter thought, and she could make a half-decent career out of this.

  The nurse disappeared. Parsons nodded at the empty chair. She was extremely angry.

  ‘The call you made this morning,’ she said at once, ‘was totally out of order. I’ve never been spoken to like that in my life. Not as a probationer, not as a new D/C and certainly not recently. Do you think an apology might be in order?’

  ‘Fuck, no.’

  Winter unbuttoned his jacket, spread his legs. He’d phoned her earlier, dialling the dedicated number. Normal procedure called for regular debriefs at a witness protection house in Lewisham, currently standing empty. Only in the direst emergency would Winter be permitted to insist on a meeting here, at the hospital.

  Parsons was still demanding an apology. Winter told her she had to be joking.

  ‘You think I enjoy that kind of language first thing in the morning?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Well, let me mark your card. Nobody ever said this was going to be easy, least of all me, but part of our job is learning how to cope with pressure. And, by that test, I suspect you’ve got a problem.’

  ‘You suspect right.’

  ‘Good. At least we understand each other.’ Parsons produced a briefcase and took out a notepad and a pen. ‘Now I want you to explain it all to me again but this time I’d ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’

  Winter went through the sequence of events. He’d been awake half the night, gazing up at the ceiling, rerunning the exchange with Bazza in his head, trying to remember every last word, every tiny nuance, testing his own performance to see whether it really did hold water. Bazza, by the end, had seemed at least half-convinced that Riquelme was wrong. But that, as he knew only too well, meant absolutely nothing.

  ‘So Mackenzie had drawn the obvious conclusion from all this? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Too bloody right.’

  ‘Because he associated you with the Devon and Cornwall operation?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you’re blaming us? Me?’

  ‘Whoever.’

  ‘But it wasn’t us, Paul. And it certainly wasn’t me. There are separate areas of responsibility here, as you very well understand. The principles are clear. As far as I can gather, everyone concerned acted within their separate jurisdictions. It was simply …’ she frowned, toying with her fountain pen ‘… unfortunate.’

  ‘Unfortunate? That they nearly bloody killed me? Listen. What it boils down to is this. Mackenzie’s not into subtle. He doesn’t understand about all that separate jurisdiction bollocks. To Bazza it’s simple. If it looks like a duck, it is a fucking duck. I was in Cambados. Within a week or so a couple of kilos from that very same source go astray. It moves through Pompey. As far as Bazza’s concerned, I am Pompey. And then some dickhead carrot-cruncher D/I calls a strike and half the dealers in Plymouth are on the phone to this bloke in Cambados, telling him they’ve been grassed up. Now this bloke’s like Bazza. He doesn’t believe in coincidences. Not for one second. And so he picks up the phone and gives Bazza an earful, and an hour or so later I find myself having to talk my way out of a serious battering. These blokes don’t fuck around, love. I’m lucky we’re not having this conversation in another hospital. Like the QA.’

  ‘Of course. But I can only repea—’

  ‘Repeat what you like. I’m just telling you someone should have kept an eye open, used their brain, seen it coming. And as far as I can gather, that someone should have been you.’

  ‘How can you possibly justify that?’

  ‘Because there has to be a system for these cross-border things. Somebody talks to somebody else. I’ve been there, I’ve done it myself. Go fishing in someone else’s pond and you have to get permission, knock on a door or two, have a yak on the phone. No
t at my level, Christ no, but somewhere in headquarters someone would have known. And that someone should have told you.’

  Winter’s outburst changed the mood. Parsons sensed an opening, just a glimpse of somewhere they might beach this tiny boat of theirs before it capsized completely.

  ‘You’re right, Paul.’ She was leaning forward now, blood pinking her face. ‘And I understand exactly the way you feel, believe me. In fact in your position I’d probably be putting it a whole lot stronger. But you have to understand the realities here. This operation is ring-fenced against practically everyone. There’s only three of us in the loop, that’s you, me and Mr Willard.’

  ‘Then he should have flagged the Devon operation up.’

  ‘He probably didn’t know about it. Just like I didn’t. You’re right. Devon and Cornwall would have talked to Force Intelligence. They’d have made a courtesy call. But I doubt a whisper of that would have gone any higher.’

  ‘Two kilos? Are you kidding?’

  ‘They called a strike. They got a result. Not us, Paul - them.’

  ‘So why didn’t we know about this kind of weight?’

  ‘Because, as I understand it, Devon and Cornwall had put in the legwork. And six months down the road, like I say, they scored a decent result.’

  ‘And our blokes? You lot? Aren’t you asking yourselves how come you never knew?’

  ‘Of course we are. And, believe me, there’s a big post-mortem going on. But that’s after the event. Which doesn’t really help you one bit, does it?’

  Winter shook his head. The word ‘post-mortem’ didn’t bear thinking about. It was his turn to lean forward. ‘How much do you know about me?’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘My file. What’s happened to me. Where I’ve been lately.’

  ‘Are we talking medical history here? Brain tumours? Surgery abroad?’

  ‘We are, boss. Listen to me. This is important. This is the way it happened, yeah? I’ve got a tumour that everyone in this fucking country says is inoperable. That’s pretty much a death sentence in anyone’s book but a good friend of mine finds this surgeon in Arizona and I walk out of that hospital with at least half a brain that’s still functioning. That makes me grateful as well as lucky. So I go back to the job. This is last year now. I’m sitting in an office on Major Crimes for a while and I’m playing myself back in. I take a punt or two on a particular inquiry and one of those punts goes horribly wrong. I cross a line. I make some serious enemies. And that same Saturday night I find myself in some very bad company. Did you hear about that? Did anyone tell you what they did to me in the van?’

  Parsons shook her head. She was really listening at last.

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘Some mates of Bazza’s. The way they saw it, I’d been completely out of order. Taken advantage.’

  ‘So what did they do?’

  ‘They lifted me off the street, they blindfolded me, and they drove me round half the night. Then they stripped me naked, drove me to the top of Portsdown Hill, and chucked me out. And all this time they’ve been taking photos. Loads of photos. You want to know what that feels like? Fucking horrible.’

  ‘You reported all this?’

  ‘No way. For one thing these guys were too fucking clever to leave any evidence. For another, there were blokes in the job that would have paid a fortune for those photos. So I just kept my head down.’

  ‘And hoped it would go away?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘Of course it didn’t.’ Winter frowned at the memory. ‘There’s a D/I called Faraday. You might have met him. He’s an oddball but a decent copper, and fuck knows how, but he got the whole story out of me. Took it to Willard. Made a suggestion or two.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About ways they might turn the situation rather than just do me for not reporting what had happened. We all knew it had to be Bazza and we all knew he’d cash in those photos one day. The trick was to make it easy for him.’

  Parsons nodded. ‘So the DUI?’ she said slowly. ‘The night they pulled you in Albert Road?’

  ‘All part of it. Willard thought I needed a legend so he dreamed one up. It was my job to sit and get pissed. Not hard. Then all I had to do was cross the road and get in the fucking motor. The woollies didn’t know of course. They all thought it was Christmas. They get a tip from someone who they think’s been dying to shaft me. They drive round, park up, wait a couple of hours for me to get well and truly pissed, then they just do the business.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I get done. Kippered. Hung out to dry. Three times over the limit and I’m out on my arse.’

  ‘So how did you feel about that?’

  ‘Bitter as fuck. But that’s all part of the legend too. Works a treat, doesn’t it? The likes of Bazza can smell blood half a mile away. I was counting the days until the phone rang. And of course it did. Baz buys me a pint or two, commiserates about the sacking, and then he offers me a job. Why? Because I’m better connected than any other bastard detective in the city. Because I know where the bodies are buried. Because I know the way that coppers think. Bazza wants all that, or thinks he wants it, and he’s still got the pictures so there’s no way I’m going to say no.’ Winter paused, nodding. ‘That Willard’s a clever bastard. Except he’s just gone and nearly got me killed.’

  ‘But you said yes to the original plan.’

  ‘That’s true. But you never expect things to go wrong, do you? Not this wrong. Not like last night.’

  Winter sniffed, then sat back in his chair. To his surprise he felt a lot better. He gave Parsons a quizzical look.

  ‘You’re telling me you didn’t know any of this?’ he asked.

  ‘I knew about the DUI, of course. And I knew a bit about other stuff you’d got up to, people’s noses you’d put out of joint. And of course I knew about the target—’

  ‘Mackenzie?’

  ‘Yes. Plus the fact you had some kind of prior relationship with him. But the rest of it, the van, the photos …’ she shook her head. ‘Need to know, I suppose. Happens all the time.’

  ‘Yeah? So where does that leave little me? Given I’m still in one piece?’

  Parsons took a long time to answer. At length she closed her notepad and put it back in the briefcase.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a little time on this one.’

  Willard wound up the Billhook progress review after less than an hour. As everyone tidied their paperwork and got to their feet, he signalled for Faraday to stay behind. When the office had emptied he shut the door.

  Faraday assumed he wanted to know something else about Billhook and braced himself for the inevitable inquisition. He was wrong.

  ‘It’s about Winter,’ Willard said. ‘I was wondering whether you’d seen him at all lately.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Faraday shook his head.

  ‘Not at all? I thought you two were on speaking terms at last.’

  ‘We worked together on Coppice. He was effective. He did a good job. But I wouldn’t say we were best mates.’

  ‘But he doesn’t do best mates.’

  ‘No, sir. And neither do I. Which probably explains why our paths haven’t crossed.’

  Faraday held Willard’s gaze. The last time he’d heard, Winter was having dealings with Bazza Mackenzie. Quite what lay behind the rumours was anybody’s guess but Faraday had a shrewder idea than most that there was more to this supposed relationship than met the eye. Indeed, as the first person to hear the truth about Winter’s abduction in the van, he’d sometimes wondered whether he might have been instrumental in whatever had happened next, a thought that made him feel extremely uncomfortable. He, after all, had been the one to take it to Willard with the suggestion that Mackenzie’s leverage on Winter might somehow be turned to good account.

  ‘So you know nothing?’ Willard raised an eyebrow.

  �
��No, sir.’

  ‘Heard nothing?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But you’d let me know, eh? If anything comes your way?’

  Faraday ducked his head. He wanted no part of this conversation. Finally, he looked up again.

  ‘Of course, sir. Though I can’t imagine it’ll ever happen. ’

  Nine

  FRIDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER 2006. 15.34

  Winter was back in Blake House by mid-afternoon. His phone was ringing within minutes. Bazza Mackenzie.

  ‘The medics give you the all-clear then?’ He was laughing.

  Winter pretended to be surprised but he knew Mackenzie wasn’t fooled for a second. This is becoming a game, he thought. If only.

  ‘Did you phone last night by any chance?’

  ‘Yeah, that was me.’

  ‘What did you want?’

  ‘Westie left his coat. I thought you could bring it round.’

  Winter was looking at the coat now. First thing this morning he’d been tempted to chuck it in the Harbour but he’d been late for the train. In a pocket he’d found a brass knuckleduster and a pair of heavy leather gloves. The consequences of getting last night wrong didn’t bear contemplation.

  ‘Bring it round where?’

  ‘Our place. Sandown Road. We’re having a bit of a party. Get a cab, mate. It’s clearing up nicely.’

  Winter was about to plead a prior engagement but the phone had gone dead. The invitation, he knew, had the force of an order. He slid open the big glass door to the balcony and stepped out. Bazza was right. After this morning’s rain the blanket of low cloud had lifted. Across the Solent he could see splashes of sunshine on the low swell of the Isle of Wight and there was a definite hint of warmth in the air.