Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  A narrow hall led from the kitchen to the front door. He moved carefully, still wondering about the dog.

  ‘Mrs Munday?’

  No response. On the right, a door opened into a curtained lounge. In the gloom he could make out a couple of bikes lying against the far wall and a new-looking stroller parked beneath the window. The air, still tainted with dog shit, smelled stale. He pulled the curtains, flooding the room with sunlight. A woman of uncertain age lay on a mattress behind the door. Faraday bent long enough to make sure she was still alive then stepped back into the hall and opened the front door. DCI Parsons had arrived. Still in her Audi at the kerbside, she was talking on her mobile.

  Faraday gestured for Suttle to step inside. He nodded in the direction of the lounge.

  ‘Take a look,’ he said. ‘Give me a name.’

  Suttle was back in seconds. ‘Avril Munday.’

  ‘Check upstairs, will you? Then sort Miles out. She’s still in the loo.’

  Outside in the street Faraday waited for Parsons to finish her call. He’d no idea how long it normally took for the FSU to deploy but was glad they’d managed to head the ninjas off. Nothing attracted trouble quicker than the sight of policemen in full riot gear.

  ‘Joe?’

  Faraday bent to the Audi and told Parsons that the property was probably secure. The kids appeared to have fled. Along with the dog.

  ‘What about the FLO?’

  ‘She’s still in the loo. Suttle should have got her out by now.’

  ‘And Mrs Munday?’

  ‘Blitzed. You want me to call off the FSU?’

  ‘No.’ She seemed disappointed. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Faraday returned to the house. He found Suttle and Hannah Miles sitting on the back step, enjoying the sunshine. Miles, if anything, looked sheepish. She’d called for the cavalry. Now this.

  ‘So what happened?’

  She did her best to explain. Last night she’d driven up from the city to introduce herself to Avril Munday. The woman had shut the door in her face and only after lengthy negotiations through the letterbox had Hannah been able to talk her way in. The place, as Faraday could see, was a tip. Dog shit and stolen goods everywhere. She’d explained the benefits of having a FLO around, smoothing out Mrs Munday’s various traumas, but the woman hadn’t been interested. She was expecting visitors. Her life was her own affair. Fuck off.

  This morning, first thing, Hannah had tried again. This time, mistaking the FLO for someone else, the door had opened. Inside, Hannah had talked her way into the kitchen. Avril Munday, she said, was a wreck, a bag of nerves, strung out, pacing up and down, scratching herself, checking her watch time and again. Hannah had asked her how she was coping with Kyle’s death, and in reply, as voluble as ever, Avril had gone on about arrangements for her son’s funeral. His mates, she said, were planning something really special. They wanted to give her boy a proper send-off, bless them, and they were pulling out all the stops. Horse-drawn hearse. Walnut coffin. Black plumes for the gee-gee. Maybe even a bugler from the Boy Scouts to sound the last post outside the crem. It was all getting sorted, all getting arranged. The estate would never have seen nothing like it, never.

  ‘You were still alone?’ It was Suttle.

  ‘I was then, yes, but pretty soon a bunch of kids appeared, really rough. One of them had the dog.’

  ‘Munday’s dog?’

  ‘I assume so. Black thing. Really vicious. They knew I was Filth from the start because she told them. That’s when the trouble started.’

  One of the kids, she said, disappeared outside. The others started taking the piss. The dog was on a chain but they kept creeping it closer and closer, pretending it was too strong for them. One of them seemed to be in charge. He’d say something and the dog would lunge at her, teeth bared, mad as you like, while all the time the other kids were winding her up.

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Like saying how young I was to be Filth, and - you know - how pretty I was, and what a shame if the dog ever got really close. They did all this in the third person as if I wasn’t there. To tell you the truth, it was really scary. I don’t like dogs at the best of times but this one was totally evil.’

  She decided to do a runner. When she tried the back door it was locked.

  ‘No key?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The front door?’

  ‘That was locked too. Big mortise lock. That’s when I went upstairs. There must have been at least half a dozen of them plus the dog. I know it’s pathetic but the loo was the only option.’

  Faraday nodded. In terms of risk assessment he should have seen this coming. As DCI Parsons would doubtless point out.

  Suttle was thinking about the car outside.

  ‘The kid who went out must have done the Fiesta,’ he said. ‘You remember what he looked like?’

  ‘Yeah. Grey hoodie. Baseball cap. Trackie bottoms. New trainers. Take your pick.’

  Faraday eyed her a moment then shook his head. Any one of a million city kids. He nodded at the tyre hanging in the garden then looked at Suttle.

  ‘Munday strung it up for his dog,’ Suttle explained. ‘The pooch leaps up at it, bites it, then sinks his teeth in. Does wonders for the little bastard’s jaw muscles. Think gym.’

  ‘And the cage?’

  ‘That’s where the dog lives. The longer you bang it up the madder it becomes.’

  ‘Think jail.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  DCI Parsons appeared around the side of the property. The sight of Suttle and Hannah Miles sitting on the doorstep put a frown on her face.

  ‘Debrief, boss,’ Faraday announced. ‘PTSD.’

  PTSD meant post-traumatic stress disorder. Parsons didn’t think it was the least bit funny.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Mr Willard,’ she said. ‘Like me, he’s taking this incident extremely seriously.’

  Faraday could only agree. The problem, he said, was deciding what to do. The kids had been canny. None of them had made any direct threats. Neither would any neighbours have the bottle to make a statement about vehicle damage. A proper search of the property would doubtless yield a tidy pile of stolen goods, and if they were clever they might snare the local smack dealer. But nothing, he said, would really adjust the balance between law and disorder. The fact was that anarchy had got the upper hand. Again.

  Parsons looked shocked. She had no time for home truths. She beckoned Faraday around the side of the building and followed him back to the street. Beside the Audi he turned to face her. She nodded back towards the house.

  ‘That was totally inappropriate.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘What you said just now. In front of junior officers. We’re in this to win, Joe. If you don’t think that’s possible, then maybe you’re in the wrong job.’ She stared at him a moment then got in the car. Moments later, the window purred down. ‘Do we have a date for the funeral?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then I suggest we find out. Can you manage that?’

  It took Winter less than a minute to coax a decision about Mo Sturrock from Bazza Mackenzie. Badly hungover, or during periods of personal crisis, Mackenzie sought refuge in Giardino’s, his favourite Gunwharf café-bar. Winter, summoned by phone, found him nursing a cappuccino in the sunshine.

  ‘Do it,’ he said briskly. ‘Just give the man a contract. Three months for starters. Then we’ll look again.’

  ‘I told him six.’

  ‘Six then. Whatever. But not a penny over twenty-five grand, OK?’

  ‘Sure. And you want Ezzie to draw the thing up?’

  ‘Good question. It’s nothing that could hurt us so why not? The little tart’s staying the weekend. I was thinking of moving in with you, mush.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Baz. I’ll tell Mist to pack her bags.’

  ‘Is that some kind of joke?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. What did Faraday say?’

  Winter had been ex
pecting the question. He’d left the Bargemaster’s House close to midnight. Faraday, for reasons no amount of Rioja could explain, had opened up about Operation Tumbril. How his little team had been determined to set a trap for Mackenzie. How cleverly they thought they’d prepared the bait. And how, with an arrest team in the wings, they’d watched Pompey’s most successful criminal demolish their little fantasy. Mackenzie, he’d admitted, was a class operator. Faraday had no time for greed and no taste for violence. Much of what Mackenzie had been up to over the years had disgusted him. But the fact remained that - when it came to the final curtain - he’d stolen all the applause. It wasn’t necessary to respect that. But you did yourself no favours if you didn’t admit it.

  ‘He was surprised,’ Winter said carefully.

  ‘About Madison?’

  ‘Yeah. He hates the man. They had a run-in a couple of years back. You remember that double killing? The property developer and then the government minister? Faraday was playing a blinder on both jobs before Madison stepped in and tried to steal the glory.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Faraday screwed him in the end, got a result on both jobs. The thing about Faraday is you never underestimate the man, not if you’ve got a brain in your head. That’s why he can’t stand Madison. He thinks the bloke’s thick, as well as a cunt.’

  Mackenzie was warming to this conversation. Winter could sense it.

  ‘Have I ever met this Faraday?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Does he fancy a life outside the Old Bill?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Shame. What floats his boat then? Money?’

  ‘Definitely not. He dresses like a dosser, drives a Mondeo that should have been put out of its misery years ago. He’s unusual that way. He genuinely doesn’t care a toss about any of that consumer bollocks.’

  ‘So how do we get to him?’

  ‘We don’t, Baz. I’ve planted the seed. Now happens to be a good time. He’s pissed off with pretty much everything. He’ll start having a nose around about Madison, I know he will. And if it suits him to get back in touch then he might do just that.’

  ‘But what happens if he doesn’t? What happens if we never hear from him again?’

  Winter shrugged. He said he didn’t know. Mackenzie wasn’t having it.

  ‘You have to know, mush. I need you to know. I don’t give a fuck about all this softly-softly nonsense. Get in there. Give the man a shake. Make it worth his while. Sort fucking Madison out.’

  Winter rolled his eyes. Mackenzie in a mood like this was impossible. He sieved every conversation, hearing only what he wanted to hear. Subtle wasn’t a proposition he understood.

  ‘Baz, there’s something I need too.’

  ‘Yeah? Like what?’

  ‘Like some kind of steer on why we’re doing this.’

  ‘I’m not with you, mush. Doing what?’

  ‘Getting so uptight about Madison.’

  Mackenzie stared at him. He was outraged. ‘You don’t think I should? You think that’s a bit of a surprise? A copper - Filth - taking liberties with my own daughter? You think that’s something I should just keep to myself? Grin and bear it? Send the happy couple a bunch of fucking roses?’

  ‘There’s something else. I know there is.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Otherwise I wouldn’t ask. There’s something else you haven’t told me, and unless you do then I’m afraid this whole thing’s pointless. You pay me for results, Baz. Why waste good money?’

  Mackenzie hated it when conversations took this kind of turn. He lowered himself in the chair, withdrew physically, reached for his coffee, eyed Winter over the edge of the cup. He owed much of his success to keeping his cards close to his chest. Information, after all, was power.

  ‘Say you’re right,’ he said at last, ‘how far would all this go?’

  ‘As far as you wanted, Baz.’

  ‘I don’t want it to go anywhere, mush.’

  ‘Then no further than me.’

  ‘Marie?’

  ‘Not unless you said.’

  ‘You mean that? Only you fucking better had.’

  ‘I mean it, Baz. And while we’re at it forget whatever fantasies you’ve had about her and me. I think she’s great, Baz. And I think you’re the luckiest fanny rat on the planet. That’s for the record.’

  Mackenzie said nothing. At moments like these he brooded. Finally Winter got a nod.

  ‘OK,’ he grunted. ‘Let’s say I believe you.’

  The silence between them stretched and stretched. A woman in a loose cotton dress sauntered past. She was beautiful and she knew it, but for once Mackenzie didn’t spare her a second glance. Winter was watching him carefully. Waiting was becoming a chore.

  ‘It’s something about Ezzie, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because she’s pressing your buttons. It’s not just Madison being a copper. It’s what she might have told him.’

  ‘Very clever.’ He mimed applause. ‘No wonder you potted all those low-life villains.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  The head went down again. He took another sip of coffee. Whiskers of milky froth appeared beneath his mouth. Then he shrugged.

  ‘It may be nothing,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not an answer, Baz. Try me. Trust me.’

  ‘OK.’ He frowned. ‘You won’t believe this but I meant it as a present for Ezzie and Stu. What a fucking joke.’

  ‘Meant what?’

  ‘The project.’

  ‘And does Ezzie know about it? This project?’

  ‘Of course she fucking does. She has to because she’s done most of the negotiations. What she doesn’t know is that the whole deal will end up in her name.’

  At last he put the cup aside and beckoned Winter closer. Last year, he said, he’d been contacted by a mate in Spain. This was a guy who lived out in Galicia on the Atlantic Coast. He had plenty of useful connections and wanted Señor Mackenzie to know about an investment opportunity in a place called Baiona.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Down near the Portuguese border. Bang on the coast. Big with Spanish tourists who know a thing or two. Pretty as you like.’

  This guy’s brother, he said, had a stake in a big apartment development. The thing was half built already and six of the apartments had been sold off plan, but the consortium in charge had hit rough water and were now looking for an injection of fresh capital.

  ‘And you were interested?’

  ‘Not in a deal like that. Not in a million years. But I went down there with Ezzie to check it out. You might remember.’

  Winter nodded. Last year Bazza and his daughter had disappeared in a hurry to Spain. At the time Winter had assumed they’d gone to the Costa del Sol. He’d been wrong.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘It turned out the spics had fucked up big time. No one in his right mind would buy into their consortium. They were totally over-leveraged. What had to happen was a fire sale. It took Ez about half a day to sniff that out. She’s got real talent, that girl. Sharp as you like.’

  Between them, Mackenzie and his daughter had put together a business plan. They knew they had the Spaniards over a barrel. They knew the consortium was facing a banking deadline only weeks away. They could drive the bargain of their dreams. And so it proved.

  ‘You bought the apartments?’

  ‘Yeah. For a song. Then it got a bit more complicated.’

  The land for the apartments had once belonged to a local businessman who also owned a hotel in the resort. This too was for sale.

  ‘Cheap?’

  ‘Not especially. He was much cannier than the guys in the consortium. He knew he was sitting on something pretty valuable. You should see the place. The views, the rooms, the potential, every fucking thing. We were staying there. Ezzie fell in love with it.’

  ‘How much did he want?’


  ‘A lot of money. We got him down a bit but it still wasn’t cheap.’

  ‘So you decided to spread the risk?’

  ‘Yeah, too right. Like you wouldn’t.’

  Winter looked away a moment. Bazza had learned a great deal over the past couple of years, and one of the more important lessons had been about risk. No matter how wealthy you might be, always minimise your exposure.

  ‘You cut someone else in on the deal?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A million. Euros, not pounds.’

  ‘And where does this money come from?’

  ‘Toot.’ He winced. ‘As it turns out.’

  Chapter thirteen

  SATURDAY, 24 MAY 2008. 17.45

  Live by the powder, die by the powder. Winter knew the Proceeds of Crime Act backwards. If Mackenzie was ever silly enough to get himself involved with tainted money, and the subsequent case was proved in court, then the authorities could turn up the next day, seize cash and other assets, and start tearing his empire apart. This was the evil bit of legislation that had driven Operation Tumbril. This was what top cops dreamed about in the small hours of the night. The prospect of returning Bazza Mackenzie to his Copnor roots was the crock of gold at the end of Willard’s rainbow.

  Just how serious a threat was Mackenzie facing? Winter knew it was hard to say. Bazza’s still-nameless partner had evidently acquired much of his wealth from the cocaine trade. That was no surprise, especially in the kind of social circles Mackenzie still occasionally frequented, but amongst serious players there was always an unspoken assumption that your money was properly laundered. You never came to the party, as Bazza had once observed, without having a good scrub-up first.

  In this case, to Bazza’s alarm, that hadn’t happened. The guy had excellent connections. His reputation as a major wholesaler, importing huge quantities of Colombian cocaine, was second to none. Like Bazza himself, he’d invested wisely, residential property first, then commercial developments. Awash with profits, all of them legit, there’d been no need to keep dabbling in the Dark Side. And yet the sheer size of the mark-up on good-quality toot had been irresistible. Cocaine addiction went way beyond chemistry.