Faraday, unusually preoccupied, had just returned from Kingston Crescent. Suttle had typed up a brief intelligence report on the Gullifant’s collapse but Faraday scarcely glanced at it.
‘So what are Social Services saying?’
‘They want a meet, boss. The guy’s name is Rick Bellinger. He’s been carrying O’Keefe’s file.’
‘Does he know where he is?’
‘He says not. But he still thinks it’s worth getting together.’
‘OK.’ Faraday was unpacking the contents of his briefcase. ‘Let me know how you get on.’
Suttle drove to Southampton. Rick Bellinger worked from a big, airy office on the first floor in the Civic Centre. He was dressed for a summer rave - jeans, T-shirt, sleeveless leather jerkin - and his shoulder-length greying hair was in need of a wash. He hadn’t shaved for a while either and confessed the weekend couldn’t come too soon. The caseload lately, he said, had been crippling. Whatever else New Labour had achieved, it didn’t pay to be a kid anymore.
They talked in a small, bare interview room. A nest of fluffy toys and a Coldplay poster were the only concessions to informality.
‘I phoned the lad’s mother just now. Strictly speaking, she needs to sign a form for this to happen but she seemed quite happy so I’ll sort it out later. That OK with you?’
Suttle said fine. Dealing with kids, as he knew only too well, could be a nightmare. Bellinger looked like a refugee from the sixties. Guys that old sometimes took a more relaxed view of the paperwork.
O’Keefe’s file lay on the desk. Bellinger didn’t touch it. He wanted to know whether Suttle had ever met the lad. Suttle shook his head. If only.
‘He’s unusual,’ Bellinger said. ‘Most of the referrals we get, you can bet there’s trouble at home. Broken families, step-parents who can’t cope, various forms of substance abuse, domestic violence, whatever. Trouble’s like sand. It obeys the laws of gravity. It trickles down through all that shit and it’s the kids at the bottom of the pile who get dumped on.’
‘But this Dermott’s the oldest.’
‘Exactly. And that’s not where it ends either. I don’t know whether you’ve been round to the house at all but chaos would be a polite word. There are eight kids in that house and the old man’s out of it most of the time, but in a funny way the whole thing works. So for once we’re not talking a shit home life. Far from it.’
‘So where’s the problem?’
‘Money. They’re skint. Eight kids take a lot of looking after and I’m betting the old man’s booze bill is astronomical. We made sure they’re getting everything they’re entitled to but even so it’s really hand to mouth. Mum’s the one who holds it all together.’
Suttle was trying to reconcile this account with the version he’d heard earlier. According to Faraday, young Dermott’s mother had declared UDI. The fact that her oldest was breaking every law in the land didn’t appear to concern her in the least. No school. No driving licence. No insurance. Regular court appearances. Someone else’s £40K motor in the lock-up round the corner. Surely this was tolerance gone mad?
‘She’s overwhelmed,’ Bellinger said at once. ‘She’s just got too much on her hands. As far as she’s concerned, Dermott’s a good wee boy, well-intentioned, and the rest of it is none of her business.’
‘So why has Dermott gone off the rails?’
‘Well …’ Bellinger smiled, ‘… that’s just it. In a way, he hasn’t. If you analyse his behaviour, ask yourself why he’s done each of these things, then you start getting a pattern.’
Both court appearances, he said, were down to shoplifting. In both cases he’d pleaded guilty and flatly denied he’d gone shopping with a list that his mother or someone else had drawn up. But the fact remained that few fifteen-year-olds stuffed loo roll, bleach and soap powder under their anoraks. They just couldn’t be arsed.
‘So what does that tell you?’ asked Suttle.
‘It tells me that the boy cares, that he contributes. In some societies he’d get a medal for what he’s done.’
‘And school?’
‘Bored shitless, like more or less every other kid in the country. But bored shitless because as far as he’s concerned there’s no bloody prospect of learning anything. Listen to Dermott for half an hour and you start realising why kids get into university without knowing how to read and write properly. The only difference is that the Dermotts of this world aren’t prepared to put up with it. When school showed no sign of ever getting better, he walked.’
‘But why isn’t he living at home then?’
‘Same reason he didn’t stick it at school.’
‘Which is?’
‘Chaos. No space. No space to think. No space to call his own. The house isn’t big. Seven siblings is a lot of noise. Three tellies are three tellies too many. Ask the neighbours. Dermott’s a kid who’s been trying to pay his way for years. You know how old he was when he got his first paper round? Eleven. That impressed me. Four o’clock in the morning and here’s this kid on this broken-down bike his dad’s rescued off the tip pedalling around in the pitch black. I said to him, Dermott, that’s outstanding. And you know what? He gave me this funny look, as if I was trying to patronise him, and then he said, Mister, why do you think I took the job? Why do you think I kept it up? Year after year? And you know the answer? Because that was the only way he could get any space in his life. He wasn’t abused. He wasn’t unloved. He wasn’t bullied. He wasn’t even seriously disadvantaged. He was just desperate to get a bit of peace and quiet. See what I mean?’
With some reluctance Suttle nodded.
‘And the Mercedes? You’re telling me that’s good karma? Nicking forty grand’s worth of someone else’s motor?’
Bellinger didn’t know about the car. Suttle explained. They had CCTV evidence plus witness statements from the estate. At best, the lad was down for a serious theft. At worst, he could be up for something very nasty indeed. Like conspiracy to murder.
Bellinger was still thinking about the Mercedes. O’Keefe, he said, didn’t move in criminal circles. He’d undoubtedly have nicked the car to sell on but he’d be pushed to get a decent deal. Some cowboy with a forecourt would have it off him for a couple of grand.
‘But a couple of grand’s a couple of grand.’
‘Sure.’
‘So where would that go?’
‘His mum,’ Bellinger laughed. ‘I’d put money on it.’
At last, he opened the file. Suttle wanted to know about friends, older kids who might have access to a rented flat, relatives maybe with a house of their own - any lead that might give Billhook an address. Bellinger shook his head.
‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid. The lad’s a bit of a loner. If there was someone he was especially close to, I’d probably know. However …’ He frowned, turning the pages of the file, hunting for something in particular. ‘Ah, here we are.’
Much earlier in the summer, he said, Social Services had paid for Dermott to attend a four-day residential course in the New Forest. Bellinger had been dubious from the start about his suitability but the magistrates at his last hearing had made a point of recommending that he be included in the next tranche of candidates, and magistrates were bad people to cross in this respect.
‘What kind of course?’
‘Bottom line, it’s about self-esteem, trying to turn kids’ lives around, offering them all kinds of challenges within a carefully constructed dynamic. They wrap this stuff up in all kinds of psycho-bollocks but actually this one seems to work. Whatever “work” means.’
‘And Dermott?’
‘Dermott was wrong for it. I said so from the start. He’s never had a problem with self-esteem. Far from it. Here’s a kid who knows exactly what he wants, what he needs and pretty much how to get it.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Well, he certainly turned up. That was a bit of a result, for starters. And he saw the thing through as well. In fact I’ve a feeling he was a bi
t of a star because they got him back for the Junior Leader programme. The reports we had back talked about his maturity and the way he coped with some of the stroppier kids. The people running the course liked him, definitely.’
‘And Dermott himself? What did he think?’
‘I’ve only seen him once since then.’ Bellinger was checking the file again. ‘That was last month. We were back in court so we didn’t talk much about what had happened in the New Forest. I do remember one thing he said, though. It was the first time he’d been camping, out in the open air, and he loved it, couldn’t get enough of it. The only problem was everyone else. Same pattern, you see? Young man who likes his own company.’
Nineteen
FRIDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 2006. 15.07
It was Bazza Mackenzie’s idea to drive across to have a chat with Cesar Dobroslaw. Winter counselled patience, said it might be better to get a little more information before they jumped in, but patience wasn’t a word for which Bazza had much time. Here was someone deeply dodgy who was in danger of planning a spoiler. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know about Mark’s death or plans for the Mackenzie Trophy so Bazza owed him, at the very least, a bit of an update.
En route Winter was curious to find out whether Bazza regarded this man as a Scummer.
‘Of course he is. He lives there, mush. He pays the fucking council tax. He’s tainted. Just like they all are.’
‘But he’s Polish, Baz. Fair play.’
‘Fair play, bollocks. A man settles in Scummerdom, puts his kids through their schools, buys his groceries from their supermarkets, what else could that possibly make him? Christ, I bet he’s even got a season ticket at St. Mary’s.’ St. Mary’s stadium was the home of Southampton Football Club. Rivalry between Pompey and the neighbouring city was at its most volatile on the pitch and on the terraces. Baz, Winter knew, viewed the hated Scummers as the devil’s spawn. That made Dobroslaw a prime target.
‘So what do we say to this guy?’
‘We explain our interest. If the man’s got an ounce of decency in his body, he’ll back off.’
Electronically controlled gates and a sweep of gravel drive led to Dobroslaw’s house. Winter had phoned ahead, asking for half an hour of his time, and the Pole had agreed at once. It seemed he’d heard of Bazza Mackenzie. It would be a pleasure to meet him.
Now, late afternoon, Winter climbed out of the Range Rover. The house belonged on the cover of one of the magazines he occasionally flicked through on visits to the dentist. On the outskirts of Chilworth, it was surrounded by fields. There were crows in the tall stand of trees beyond the treble garage, and the autumn sunshine, still warm, made the soft ochre brickwork of the old farmhouse glow. Mackenzie stood looking at it, lost for words. He’d always wanted a thatched roof over his head.
‘Nice, eh?’
It was Dobroslaw. He was a big man, powerfully built. The trousers belonged to a business suit and he wore a blue and red striped tie with his crisp white shirt. He stood in the open doorway in his polished Gucci loafers, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet. The offered handshake was a crusher and, close-up, his big, flat face was mapped with tiny broken veins. A drinker, thought Winter. Like Mackenzie, this man has no patience.
From inside the house came the sound of someone practising on a piano, playing the same phrase again and again. Then the playing stopped and Winter heard a low series of instructions followed, moments later, by the same sequence of notes, repeated and repeated.
‘Chopin. My son is learning the piano. Not as easy as tennis. You guys want something to drink?’ He had a deep voice, thickened with booze and cigarettes. The accent was still heavy. Not a Scummer at all, thought Winter.
Bazza was looking at an oil painting that dominated the low-ceilinged hall. The artist had caught a certain expression on the woman’s face. She looked, if it were possible, both demure and alluring.
‘Wicked,’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’
‘My wife.’
‘She’s beautiful.’
‘I blame the artist. Too much praise and a woman, she becomes impossible. You find that at all?’ He roared with laughter, not waiting for a reply but leading them into a sitting room at the back of the house.
The room was intimate yet imposing, softly lit by the spill of light from the shallow bay window. The window looked out onto a terrace. Beyond the swimming pool was a paddock. Bazza, Winter suspected, was counting the horses. There were five. Faintly, as Dobroslaw clumped from the room, there came the growl of a distant tractor. Everything in the house, the garden, the view, smelled of money.
‘Not bad, eh?’ Bazza muttered. ‘For a fucking Pole.’
Dobroslaw returned with a tray of drinks. The bottle of Bison Grass sat in a nest of ice cubes. Dobroslaw poured generous measures and proposed a toast.
‘Na Zdrowie, gentlemen. To a long life.’
‘Yeah.’ Bazza raised his glass. ‘And a good woman.’
The chilled vodka coiled in the pit of Winter’s stomach. Already, he could sense this encounter getting out of hand. Dobroslaw, by virtue of his sheer presence, had taken charge. And Bazza wouldn’t like that.
‘So, gentlemen …’ Dobroslaw waved them onto the sofa ‘… how can I help you?’
Bazza began to explain about his brother. Winter, who’d heard all this a thousand times, was watching Dobroslaw’s face as he settled in the armchair. His eyes were narrow, almost slits, pouched with good living. His jet-black hair was swept straight back, no parting, and one of his ears had obviously suffered damage in the boxing ring. Listening to Mackenzie, he gave nothing away.
‘So then … you have a trophy?’
‘Yeah. For Mark. Respect, really. You got any brothers?’
‘Three. All of them still in Poland. And four sisters. Two in Milwaukee, one in Florida, and one in the military. You notice that about women? Always braver. Always.’
Mackenzie wanted to know about Dobroslaw’s own interest in jet skis. He understood he was backing a similar event.
‘How can I? My brothers are alive.’
‘I meant a race, mush.’ Bazza was definitely getting edgy.
‘Ah … the Enduro. A wonderful idea. Wonderful. You ever do jet ski? You should. Lots of fun.’ The massive head nodded and he got to his feet, a single movement. More Bison Grass. Another toast.
‘To your brother.’ He lifted his glass. ‘And to this race of yours.’
They swallowed the vodkas. Winter felt his eyes moistening. Bazza wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘But that’s the point, mush.’
‘Cesar.’
‘Cesar. That’s what I’ve come about. Your race and my race. We can’t have two. Ain’t on. Won’t work.’
‘Why ever not?’ Both hands in the air, an expansive gesture, the best of friends.
‘Because it won’t. Tell him, Paul. Tell him why we’ve got to have a sort-out here.’
Winter began to explain about sponsorship, about the media coverage, about the size of the trough they’d be sharing. Everyone was telling him there was only so much exposure to go round. Two events on the same piece of ocean just didn’t make sense. There was a long silence. Dobroslaw looked unimpressed. Winter wasn’t even sure he believed it himself.
‘But I don’t understand,’ Dobroslaw said at length. ‘You come here to say no to my race? To tell me it can’t happen? Is that what you’re saying?’
He sounded reproachful, almost disappointed, as if he’d expected something better. Bazza wasn’t in the mood for this kind of negotiation. Neither was he used to talking to someone who’d probably tucked away the same kind of money.
‘I’m not here to fanny around, mush. I’m just saying, that’s all.’
‘Saying what?’
‘Saying that one of us has to back off. And it ain’t going to be me.’
‘Please … that sounds like a threat.’
‘Not at all. Call it advice. Call it whatever you like. All I’m sa
ying is our Mark deserves a bit of a send-off. And that’s exactly what we’re going to give him.’
‘Then do it, my friend. Do it. Send me an invitation. I’ll bring my family. We’ll raise a glass. Wish him szerokiej drogi.’
‘Wish him what?’
‘God speed. Bon voyage.’
‘Yeah, and half a dozen Hail Marys. Listen. There’s something I haven’t mentioned. My friend Paul here, you know what he used to do for a living? Until recently? Until very recently? He was a copper, CID, smart-arse detective, one of the best in Pompey, no, the best in Pompey. And you know who he works for now? Me.’
‘Congratulations.’ The glass again, raised in Winter’s direction. ‘Happy retirement.’
‘No, but think about it, mush. Think about all those mates he’s got back in the job, think about all those conversations he might just be having. Business can be difficult. You’re talking to someone who knows. The last thing you need is that kind of aggravation.’
‘What kind of aggravation?’
‘Paul here passing on a tip or two, marking a few cards, maybe even suggesting his mates, his ex-mates, start taking an interest in all that Russian fanny you’ve got tucked up. Don’t get me wrong, mush. It’s nothing personal. I’ve got nothing against a man making a decent living, whichever way he wants to cut it. I just need a clear run for Mark. It’s that simple. No hassle. No drama. Just a handshake.’ He forced a smile. ‘That sound reasonable?’
Dobroslaw was eyeing the bottle. Winter knew, with a terrible certainty, that Bazza had got this completely wrong. Either he was about to get the bottle over his head or they’d simply be slung out. In the event it was the latter.
The Pole was on his feet again. He said he had to pay the piano teacher. Then he was due at a meeting back in Southampton. After which he had to take the train for London. It had been a pleasure meeting Mr Mackenzie, being able to put a face to the reputation, and he was delighted to say that he hadn’t been remotely disappointed. Bazza gazed up at him, confused.
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