‘Have you taken a look at Brett West’s souvenir book yet?’
‘No.’
‘You should. That’s pressure, believe me.’
Faraday had donned a pair of gloves and leafed through the album only this morning. Slashed faces. Drilled kneecaps. Wounds no plastic surgeon could ever properly repair. Willard, in a way, had been right. This wasn’t simply the work of a psychopath. Mackenzie, in the end, had made it happen.
‘And you’re telling me any of that assists the course of justice?’
‘I’m telling you nothing, boss. Except that it’s completely conceivable that Winter has beaten us to it.’
‘Then surely it’s just a question of time before we catch up.’
‘Not necessarily. What if he’s laid hands on a key piece of evidence? Something we’d need to make the case? What then?’
‘We nick him.’
‘But say he’s gone to some lengths to hide this thing - whatever it is - away?’
She studied him for a long moment then frowned. ‘You’re suggesting we do some kind of trade?’
‘I’m suggesting we explore the situation. We’re in new territory, boss. Winter’s sharp. He knows we’re up against it. He knows we’ve got all kinds of people, powerful people, pushing us for a result. Media-wise, the force is still in the frame. We’ve spent a fortune already and there are lots of bills to come. We’re nearly a week on and what have we got to show for it all? Sod all.’
‘We’ve got Mackenzie. And Winter too.’
‘That’s a supposition.’
‘You don’t think we can make it stick?’
‘Not as far as Rachel and the lad Hughes are concerned, no way.
Maybe we can get some kind of result on Danny Cooper. But even then we’ve got to link Brett West to Mackenzie. You know they’ve been close. Half the bloody city knows West does jobs for Bazza but that proves nothing, not in a court of law. People won’t be in a hurry to testify against Mackenzie. And if you want to know why, you should take a look at that album.’
Parsons shifted her weight on the desk. She hated admitting the force of anyone else’s arguments. Finally, with some regret, she nodded at the phone.
‘Do you make the call, or do I?’
‘What call?’
‘To Mr Willard. This is way above my pay grade, Joe. And frankly it’s probably above his too.’
Misty Gallagher was ten minutes early for the meet at Gunwharf. She rang Winter from the entrance to the undercroft parking area. She needed the code to raise the barrier. Minutes later she was emerging from the lift and blowing him a kiss the length of the third-floor landing.
‘Do I smell coffee?’
‘Another day, Mist. I’m late as it is.’
She followed Winter into the flat. A holdall lay on the sofa, half-packed. Winter disappeared onto the landing with a screwdriver.
‘DIY time, Paulie?’ she called.
‘Don’t ask.’
A couple of minutes later, Winter was back with something small, wrapped in a Waitrose shopping bag.
‘Guard it with your life, Mist. Like I said, no one needs to know.’
‘Baz?’
‘No one. And keep it somewhere fucking safe. Just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’
‘Just in case the Bill come looking. We can’t rely on them being stupid all the time, can we?’ He looked her in the eye. ‘You with me, Mist?’
‘Of course I am.’ She was weighing the little parcel in her hand.
‘Best not leave it in the house then, eh?’
‘Best where no one’s going to find it. It’s your call, Mist, but speaking personally I’d dig a hole in that garden of yours and bury it. And I’d do it after dark, yeah?’
‘You want it back?’
‘Of course I want it back. But not just yet, love.’
He sat beside the holdall and began to pack a modest pile of clothes. Misty watched him, intrigued.
‘Going somewhere nice?’
‘No idea, Mist, absolutely none. But this is Bazza, isn’t it? He’s staring a conspiracy charge in the face and we’re all off on fucking holiday. Anyone else, I’d say they’d lost it.’
‘Conspiracy to what?’
‘Murder.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Too fucking right.’ Winter checked his watch then nodded at the package. ‘You happy about that? No second thoughts?’
Misty was still digesting the news about Bazza. It turned out he’d appeared first thing this morning, letting himself into the house and banging around downstairs without even bothering to say hello.
‘You saw him?’
‘I yelled down in the end. He said he was just off out again.’
‘What did he want?’
‘No idea. It happens sometimes.’
She shrugged and slipped the package in her bag. Then she bent low, kissing Winter on the lips.
‘You owe me, you know that?’
‘Great.’ He managed a smile. ‘But some other time, eh?’
Chapter twenty-seven
SATURDAY, 18 AUGUST 2007. 11.43
Gabrielle and J-J took the bus up to Drayton. Connor, as promised, was waiting inside the fish and chip shop across the pavement from the bus stop. The minute he saw J-J, he stepped out into the rain and began to walk away.
Gabrielle caught him further down the parade of shops. Since she’d last seen him, he seemed to have acquired a gold chain. It was looped around his scrawny neck, the bottom disappearing beneath a fold of shirt.
‘You never told me about no other geezer.’
‘He’s OK. A friend, that’s all.’
‘Why bring him?’
‘Because I had to.’
‘Who says?’
‘My other friend.’
‘The bloke I met? He was a cop, wasn’t he? See … I was right. And he’s your friend too? Fuck that.’
He made to turn on his heel but she pulled him back. Her strength surprised him.
‘No bird does that to me.’ He brushed his sleeve. ‘That’s out of order.’
‘I’m sorry. I apologise.’
‘Yeah?’ He was uncertain now, the rain streaming down his face.
‘Here.’ She nodded at a nearby convenience store. The pavement was dry beneath the plastic awning. Connor was taking a harder look at J-J, who’d sought shelter in the doorway of a nearby estate agency. Something clearly puzzled him.
‘What’s he like then, this bloke?’
‘He’s deaf.’
‘Deaf? You’re joking. How does he hear then?’
‘He doesn’t. That’s why he’s deaf. Deaf and dumb.’
‘Can’t talk neither?’
‘No.’
‘And you think I believe that? You think I’m some kind of cunt? Really stupid, like?’
Gabrielle beckoned J-J over. In a burst of sign she explained that Connor was worried about the fact that she had company.
J-J nodded. Then turned to Connor. He put his head on one side, raised his hands in a despairing gesture then rolled his eyes. Even Connor laughed.
‘He’s fucking simple, your mate. That’s well cool. Do it again.’
‘Quoi?’
‘The hands bit. Like you did just now.’
Gabrielle obliged. This time she signed that Connor needed to get out more. J-J signalled his agreement by winking at Connor and sticking up both thumbs.
‘What’s that about then?’
‘I told him you were going to help us. With the address.’
‘Yeah … ?’ He frowned. Then his bitten fingers strayed to the tiny gold cross on the chain round his neck. ‘You got the dosh?’
‘Oui.’
‘Let me see it.’
Gabrielle took an envelope from her bag. The money was in ten-pound notes. She counted them then returned the notes to the envelope.
Connor turned back to J-J.
‘Is he going with you?’
‘Oui.’
‘And you say he’s deaf? Really deaf. Can’t hear nothing?’
‘Oui.’
‘All right.’ His hand came out for the money.
Gabrielle shook her head. She wanted the address first. That was the deal. No address, no money.
Connor was frowning. He took another look at J-J then nodded towards the estate agent’s window.
‘Over there.’
They left the shelter of the canopy. Jax Bonner had a half-brother, he said. This bloke was the son of the sort her dad had married. He worked as an estate agent, had loads of empty property on the firm’s books. Jax was living in one of them. No one had shown any interest in the place for months. He’d given her the key. On the quiet, like.
‘So what’s the address?’
‘There. That one.’ They were standing outside the estate agency.
Connor’s thin finger was pointing at a scruffy bungalow no camera angle could ever beautify. The property was in Wymering. Walton Road.
‘What number?’
‘Seven.’
‘And she’s in now?’
‘Yeah. She’s always in.’ Connor pocketed the folded notes, then looked at J-J again. ‘She’ll like him, Jax. She’ll think he’s a right laugh.’
Winter took a cab to Southampton Airport, arriving a couple of minutes after half twelve. Bazza was already there, beside the news-stand on the main concourse. With him were three faces Winter recognised at once. Two of them were local mates of Bazza’s from way back, both handy scrappers, both football crazy. Winter had used them on the courier service since February and knew they liked a party. The other man was short, thickset, in jeans, new-looking trainers and a Lonsdale T-shirt. His shaven skull was golden under the artificial lights and his mirrored shades made Winter realise he was even fatter than he liked to believe.
Bazza did the introductions.
‘Tommy Peters,’ he said. ‘Face from London. Don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure.’
‘Wrong, Baz. We met years ago.’
‘Albany,’ Peters confirmed. ‘I was doing a five for attempted murder. This cunt fronts up one afternoon, tries to turn me into some kind of supergrass.’
‘Never worked, though, did it, Tommy?’ Winter extended a hand.
‘Can’t say I blame you.’
Peters refused the proffered handshake. Travelling with Winter was clearly something of a surprise. Bazza took them both to one side.
‘Paul works for me now, Tommy. Has done for the best part of a year.’
‘And you’re telling me you fucking trust him?’
‘Tommy, I fucking do. And I’ll tell you something else. You will too. Or you’re back on the fucking train.’
Peters removed the shades and for a moment Winter wondered whether this little scene was about to turn ugly.
‘Give me one reason,’ he said, nodding at Winter. ‘I’m a reasonable bloke. One’ll be enough.’
‘OK.’ Bazza nodded. ‘This morning we had to bin a motor. It happened to be an Alfa. I told Paul here it was going to a scrapyard in Swindon. I chose Swindon because there’s only one yard there and I happen to know the bloke who owns it. I won’t go into details, Tommy, but that motor can put me inside. Now young Paul, he has half the morning to make a few calls, arrange an interception, get the yard staked out, whatever. That’s if I’ve got him wrong after all this time. And you know what? Not one cunt turned up. I checked with the owner half an hour ago. Clean as a whistle.’
Winter had listened to the story with growing interest. The implications were all too obvious.
‘So where did the Alfa really go?’ he enquired.
‘Basingstoke, you daft cunt.’ Bazza shot him a grin. ‘You think I’m stupid?’
Mackenzie had hired an executive jet. After cursory passport checks Bazza’s party clambered aboard. Seven leather seats on either side of the tiny fuselage left plenty of room for an on-board hostess but to Winter’s disappointment Bazza had designated himself master of ceremonies. The flight down to Malaga, he announced, would take three hours. He’d be serving chilled Krug and burgers on the way down, something a bit livelier on the return trip.
‘When’s that then, Baz?’ It was Peters. Evidently he had an important meet with a lawyer back in Slough on Tuesday.
‘Tomorrow, Tommy. Or maybe Monday. Depends.’
The plane took off, climbing steeply over Southampton’s city centre. As the view was shredded by low cloud, Mackenzie caught a glimpse of St Mary’s Stadium, home to the city’s football team.
‘Fucking Scummers,’ he muttered to no one in particular.
Minutes later, with the plane levelling out in bright sunshine, he made his way back to the tiny galley. The pop of a cork announced the first bottle of champagne and Bazza’s reappearance with a silver tray and four brimming flutes sparked a round of applause.
Only last year Winter had been on a similar outing - to watch Pompey playing away at Middlesbrough - and the madness of the weekend had left a permanent impression. Not because Bazza allowed himself to become the plaything of the millions he’d stashed away from the cocaine biz, but because he loved to celebrate the reach and the status the money had given him. Twelve months later that instinct to establish himself in life’s pecking order was no less strong. Indeed, given the likely consequences of Westie’s recklessness, it was probably even stronger. No one, thought Winter, would ever be silly enough to underestimate Bazza Mackenzie. Especially now.
He settled back in the seat, his glass empty, the sun on his face. His eyes closed and he was enjoying the warm anticipation of a little doze when he felt a touch on his arm.
It was Bazza. He had a fresh bottle of Krug and he’d perched himself on the arm of the empty seat across the aisle.
‘Splash more, mush?’
‘No thanks, Baz.’
‘Very wise.’
Winter opened one eye again. He knew Bazza in this mood. He recognised the tone of voice.
‘Not just a jolly then?’
‘Afraid not.’
Winter twisted in his seat to look back down the plane.
‘It’s Westie, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘And is that why Tommy’s drinking Coke?’
A morning of steady rain had done nothing for 7 Walton Road. Gabrielle pushed in through the gate and picked her way across the broken paving slabs. A steady dribble of water from broken guttering splashed onto the stained single mattress abandoned beneath the front window and a smeared note on the door warned intruders about the resident Alsatian. The note drew a wag of the head from J-J. He’d never liked dogs.
Gabrielle knocked at the door. Moments later a face appeared at the neighbouring window. It was a girl’s face. She was wearing a flat cap and heavy make-up. She was beautiful, Gabrielle thought. Full lips, a slash of deep scarlet on a wonderfully pale face.
The face disappeared and moments later the door opened.
‘Jax Bonner?’
The girl nodded. She was looking at J-J.
‘Your friend, right?’
‘Oui. Connor? He phoned you?’
‘Yeah. Come in.’
The house smelled of damp. J-J padded warily from room to room.
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘He hates dogs.’
‘But why is he deaf? Why can’t he hear?’
‘Sais pas. With some people it’s that way forever, from birth.’
‘Weird.’
‘Sure. But you learn to get by.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Nearly thirty.’
‘He looks younger.’ She frowned. ‘Weird,’ she said again.
J-J had rejoined them, more relaxed now. The dog was outside in the tiny back garden, chained to a drainpipe. J-J found himself a space on the sofa. Apart from the sofa and a single dining chair, the room was bare.
‘You’ve lived here for long?’ he signed.
Gabrielle translated. Jax couldn�
�t take her eyes off J-J’s hands, always on the move, always shaping fresh thoughts.
‘Nearly a week,’ she said.
‘It’s shit,’ he signed.
‘You’re right.’ She nodded. ‘But better than the Bridewell.’
Gabrielle couldn’t translate Bridewell into sign, partly because she hadn’t a clue what the word meant. Jax was looking at J-J. She tried to draw a cell with her hands, up and down movements for the bars, then the turn of a key in a lock and an extravagant outward movement as an imaginary door swung open. J-J made her do it again, then gave her thumbs up.
‘Prison,’ he signed to Gabrielle.
This tiny pantomime broke the ice. For the first time Jax smiled. Her teeth were stained and broken in that perfect face.
‘You’re the French woman working with the kids, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what’s that about?’
Gabrielle moved the dining chair so she could see J-J and then sat down. She explained she was working on a project for a French university. It had to do with gang structures among kids, here and in France. One day it might make a book. In the meantime it was her business to listen.
‘And what do the kids tell you?’
‘Lots of things.’
‘Do they tell you how crap this country is?’
‘Sometimes they tell me how crap their lives are.’
‘Same thing. Crap country. Crap lives. Except the kids you’re seeing are too young to fucking understand it.’
‘Connor?’
‘He’s too stupid. Plus he smokes too much weed. Just like his fucking brother. You know Clancy? I’ve given him houseroom until we have to move on. He’s like Connor when it comes to weed. He tells me he can’t sleep without it. Twat.’ She paused, staring at Gabrielle. ‘So what do you want?’ It seemed more than a question. It was a challenge. You’ve found me here, she seemed to be saying. You’ve got beyond my door. You’ve invaded my space. This better be worth it.
‘We need to talk about the party.’
‘Why? Because your boyfriend asked you?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘In a way, yes.’
‘Connor says he’s Old Bill.’
‘Comment?’
‘Filth. Police. A cop.’
‘That’s right. He is.’
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