Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Tumbril?’ Willard said at last.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why Tumbril?’

  ‘Because the thing was intel-led. And it failed.’

  ‘But that was different, Joe. Tumbril got us screwed, I admit it. But the last thing I anticipated was getting shafted by one of our own.’

  Faraday said nothing. The plot to bring down Bazza Mackenzie had crashed and burned because a disaffected officer had blown it. Willard had recovered his poise. He was back in charge. He was looking impatient, wanting to know what relevance any of this had. They were here to discuss a murderous affray in a Paulsgrove Chinky, not a long-term covert operation against the city’s top face.

  Faraday took his time. He wasn’t at all sure where this conversation would go next but he was determined to find out.

  ‘Perry Madison is shagging Mackenzie’s daughter,’ he said slowly. ‘Mackenzie thinks it’s Tumbril all over again.’

  Willard showed no sign of surprise. For a long moment he said nothing. Only his eyes gave him away.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Winter told me.’

  ‘Winter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him about this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you speak to him often, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘Very rarely.’

  ‘But it happens?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘On what terms?’

  ‘Strictly social. We’re friends … of a kind.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise? Given the company he now keeps?’

  ‘Of course not. But he was a copper for twenty years and we worked together from time to time, and nothing’s going to change that. We compare notes occasionally, have a few drinks. I know Winter well. Nothing he does ever happens by accident. We only meet because he wants something.’

  ‘And now he’s telling you that Mackenzie’s daughter is over the side with Madison? Is that it?’

  ‘Yes. And like I just said, he thinks there may be another agenda.’

  ‘So why tell me, Joe?’

  ‘Because he may be right. And if he is right then you might spare yourself a great deal of grief. Again.’

  Willard nodded. Then he stood up and checked his watch. At the door he paused and turned round.

  ‘This conversation never happened, Joe. You understand that?’

  Gerri Madeley was on the point of going to bed when Winter knocked at her door. He’d phoned a couple of minutes ago as the cab left Mackenzie’s Craneswater house. They’d never met but Marie had marked his card. Like her daughter, she often asked the dispatcher for Gerri by name. ‘She’s been through the mill a bit,’ she’d told Winter. ‘But she’s got a heart of gold.’

  No one had warned him about the scar. It ran down the side of her face, a livid slash that puckered the flesh and seemed to staple the corner of her mouth shut. Try as he did, Winter couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  She invited him into the downstairs flat. She was wearing a dressing gown that was several sizes too big and a pair of fluffy pink slippers.

  ‘I won’t keep you, love. It’s about Esme Norcliffe. You took her to Gatwick this morning, am I right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you know her well?’

  ‘I drives for her, yeah.’

  ‘Any idea where she was going?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Her dad.’

  ‘Mr M?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s a mate of yours?’

  ‘I work for him.’

  ‘Prove it. You look like the Old Bill to me.’

  Winter laughed. Driving cabs all day certainly wised you up. He produced his mobile and called Bazza’s number. When he answered Winter gave her the mobe. She had a brief conversation, eyed Winter, nodded, and then returned the phone.

  ‘Ez was going to Spain,’ she said.

  ‘Any idea where?’

  ‘Same place as last time. When Mr M went too.’

  ‘Vigo?’

  ‘That’s it. She really likes it down there. Told me how different it is - you know, not full of bloody English. That’s why she’s learning Spanish.’

  ‘Since when?’ This was news to Winter.

  ‘Since Christmas. Her old man bought her one of them quick-learning courses. She tried bits out on me this morning. Sounded all right like. Viva España. All that crap.’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘You would though, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Learn the bloody language. If you were going to live out there.’

  Minutes later, back in his car, Winter passed the news to Mackenzie.

  ‘Live out there? Who says?’

  ‘She did - Ez - this morning. She told Gerri she was going to move out there, make a new start. She said she was doing it for her kids. She thinks this country’s gone down the khazi. No way does she want to bring them up here.’

  ‘So where does Stu figure in all this?’

  ‘She didn’t say. Gerri knows Stu. She thinks he’s lovely.’

  ‘And Madison?’

  ‘She’d never heard of him. Ez never said a word about any of that.’

  There was a long silence. Then Mackenzie was back. He said he’d been on the Internet, checking flights. He wanted Winter at Heathrow by half past eight next morning to get the ten o’clock departure for Madrid. A domestic connection would take him to Vigo.

  ‘Hire a car at the airport or take a cab. Baiona’s just down the coast. I’ve booked you into the hotel. It’s called the Fonda Perla de Cuba. You got that?’

  Winter was trying to find something to write on. Mackenzie went through it again.

  ‘The guy’s name is Casimiro Fresnada,’ he added. ‘Proper old school, charming as you like. Watch him like a fucking hawk.’

  ‘Which guy’s this?’ Winter was lost.

  ‘The guy who owns the hotel.’

  ‘The Perla de whatever?’

  ‘Yeah. Pound to a penny, that’s where Ezzie’s gone. To get this thing signed she needs Fresnada and the other guy.’

  ‘Your new partner?’

  ‘Our new partner.’

  ‘He’s got a name? Only that might be really useful.’

  Another silence, even longer.

  ‘Garfield,’ he said at last. ‘Al Garfield. Fat little guy. He’s got a squint. You can’t miss him. When you get down there, mush, just head Ezzie off.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Tell her not to sign anything. Tell her from me. If she kicks up, give her a cuddle, give her a slapping, any fucking thing. Just make sure her signature gets nowhere near that contract, OK?’

  Something was bothering Winter. He sat back in the Lexus, eyeing a couple of students weaving their way down the street towards him. One swung a foot at a can on the pavement and missed.

  ‘Why don’t you go, Baz? You know these guys. You understand the deal. And she’s your bloody daughter, after all.’

  ‘No can do, mush. I’m in London first thing Monday morning. Big meet at the Dorchester. Raghead from Dubai. There’s no way I can stand him up. Just get down there and tell bloody Ez to behave herself for once. I’ll owe you big time.’

  ‘What about Mo Sturrock?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Tide Turn guy I want to bring on board. You said yes when we met this morning. Just tell me you meant it.’

  ‘Of course I meant it. Marie’s been in touch with him already. They’re having a meet tomorrow. Tide Turn’s history, mush, as far as you’re concerned. You’re OK with that? Happy now, my friend?’

  Winter watched the students roll past the car. The downstairs lights in Gerri Madeley’s flat were out.

  ‘That cab driver I just met, Baz. What happened to her face?’

  ‘She came off a motorbike, mush, a couple of years back. Bloke in a van hit her from the side. You know what they say? You never see it coming until it’s too late.’ Mackenzie barked w
ith laughter. ‘Let’s hope they’re wrong, eh?’

  Faraday was home by ten. He’d worked late at Major Crime, making sure the Melody and Highfield files were ready for the D/I who’d be driving Operation Adelaide. What struck him as he leafed through the paperwork was the way the three investigations dovetailed so seam-lessly together.

  First Tim Morrissey had been bullied to death, in all probability by Kyle Munday and his little gang. Then, six months later, in a settling of accounts, Tim’s mother had run Munday over. And now, within days, two of those same kids running with Munday had in turn been killed. The theme that ran through all three incidents, the message in the Pompey stick of rock, was a deep undercurrent of violence, the kind of violence that suddenly erupted in wild spasms of bloodletting: ungovernable, reckless and often fatal.

  The tariff, Faraday thought, was going up all the time. A generation ago differences would have been settled with fists. There was an intent to hurt, of course there was, but far fewer brawls ended in the mortuary. Nowadays, though, that restraint, that respect for some kind of unspoken code, had gone. When people fought, for whatever reason, they really meant it. Welcome to the world of the one-punch homicide.

  At the Bargemaster’s House Faraday poured himself a lager and carried it upstairs. Both Parsons and Willard had made it plain that they were standing Faraday down from sharp-end investigations pending some kind of review. This wasn’t, as yet, a transfer out of Major Crime, but Faraday sensed that his days at Kingston Crescent were probably numbered. They were right in looking for energy, appetite and total commitment. Experience was a huge asset but the last thing they needed was a D/I who’d begun to suspect that the ongoing war they were all fighting was probably unwinnable. Hence the decision to move Faraday aside from today’s double murder. And hence the small, time-filling consolations of a cold case.

  The buff Operation Sangster file lay beside his PC. Faraday settled himself behind the desk, fighting the temptation to open it. Instead, he fired up the computer and opened his email account. Below the usual list of birding updates and miscellaneous spam was a message from Gabrielle. The time in Montreal was late afternoon. He toyed with the mouse, trying to picture her in the rented flat, hunched over her laptop. Before he’d left, barely a week ago, she’d been thinking of getting herself a kitten. There was a guy downstairs who had to find a home for a whole litter. Otherwise he was threatening to drown them.

  Had she found space for one? Two? The whole lot? Faraday hovered the pointer over her email, glad that she’d got in touch at last, but bracing himself for disappointment. Since getting back from Canada, his own emails had gone unanswered, even unacknowledged. The worst week he could remember could yet have a last bitter twist.

  He swallowed the rest of the lager and opened the email. His French was beginning to suffer from lack of use but the sheer length of the message gave him some small encouragement.

  He quickly scanned it, jumping from sentence to sentence, hearing Gabrielle’s voice, recognising the mood she was in, understanding with a little jolt of pleasure that loneliness was something you could share. On the face of it, she said, she had nothing but good news. The university had offered her a permanent post. She’d been hauled away to various social get-togethers. She’d fought off a Russian Fine Arts lecturer who was determined to talk her into bed. She’d eaten and quaffed her way from restaurant to restaurant, fêted by her fellow academics, adopted by their pretty wives, made hugely welcome. All this, in their phrase, was fine and dandy, but something was missing, something had gone, and it wasn’t until she’d dropped Faraday at the airport and waved him au revoir that she’d realised what it was. She couldn’t wait to get back home. Home, she said, was the Bargemaster’s House. Happiness, she said, was an evening in the kitchen with a bottle or two of Côtes-du-Rhône and some decent conversation. The future, if Faraday was still interested, was theirs for the taking. On ne sait jamais ce qu’on a jusqu’à on le perde. You never know what you’ve got until you lose it.

  Faraday stared at the screen, aware of the print blurring in front of his eyes. Then he sat back, flooded with warmth and with hope, staring out at the darkness on the harbour.

  Chapter fifteen

  SUNDAY, 25 MAY 2008. 13.45

  Vigo airport was busier than Winter had expected. He carried his only bag through the customs channel and paused for a moment in the arrivals hall. The flight down from Heathrow had been packed, mainly retired Brit couples on late-spring package deals, and Winter let them plod past while he got his bearings. He spotted the Avis counter at the far end of the concourse. A rental car, he’d decided, would be better than a cab.

  A small queue had already formed. Winter was still deciding whether Hertz would be quicker when he became aware of a presence at his elbow. The lightest touch on his arm, barely perceptible. Then a voice in his ear, almost a whisper.

  ‘Señor Winter? You remember me?’

  Winter glanced round. The tall slim Latino was wearing a faded Jim Morrison T-shirt. The fall of plaited hair was greyer than he remembered but the eyes still held a laid-back curiosity you might associate with a younger man. Winter shook the extended hand. A moment later the man’s name came back to him.

  ‘Riquelme,’ he said. ‘From Cambados.’

  ‘Rikki. I have a car outside. You must come. Quickly.’

  Winter stood his ground. He wanted to know why this man had been waiting for him. And what would happen next.

  ‘We have no time. Not now. Not here. You come with me. Otherwise it will be hard for you.’ He nodded towards one of the exit doors. A pair of policemen were eyeing passengers as they headed for the line of coaches waiting outside in the sunshine.

  Winter wondered whether to argue the toss but decided against it. This man knew something he didn’t.

  ‘You come?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They walked to the far end of the concourse. A security door opened to Riquelme’s touch. Beyond lay a car park.

  ‘The red Megane. Walk slowly. No hurry.’

  Winter did what he was told. The last time he’d seen this man was a couple of years back. Mackenzie’s stepbrother, Mark, had been killed in a jet ski accident off Cambados, and at Bazza’s invitation Winter had joined the funeral party, a volatile mix of family, friends and prominent Pompey faces. Mourning the departed in this kind of company had been a novelty for Winter but he’d flown out to Cambados nonetheless. Everything had been fine until the second evening, when Riquelme had invited himself to Winter’s table on a café terrace overlooking the harbour. Riquelme was a main player in the cocaine biz. And he’d known at once that Winter was a cop.

  ‘How is Señor Mackenzie?’

  ‘He’s fine. You’ve talked to him?’

  ‘Last night. He told me which plane to meet. I drove down this morning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No kidding?’

  ‘No.’

  Riquelme began to laugh. He opened the doors of the Renault. Winter got in. When Riquelme gunned the engine and checked round for the exit Winter reached across and removed the keys.

  ‘Tell me where we’re going,’ he said. ‘And why.’

  Riquelme wanted the keys back. Winter held his gaze.

  ‘Last time we met you thought I was a cop,’ he said.

  ‘You tell me I was wrong?’

  ‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘I’m asking you what you think now.’

  ‘Now I know you work for Señor Mackenzie.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Of course, my friend. Otherwise I’d leave them to do their business with you.’

  ‘Who? The police?’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘Why would they bother with me?’

  ‘You don’t know? You don’t remember last year? Rincon de la Vittoria? Las Puertas de Paraiso?’

  Winter said nothing. The temptation was to step out of the car, retrieve
his bag, go back to the terminal, and get the next plane out. Bazza must have known, he told himself. This man, or maybe someone else, must have told him. Don’t set foot in Spain for a while. Or maybe ever.

  ‘Who told you about last year?’

  ‘I have good contacts in the police. They have a watch list at all our airports. Your name is on the list, my friend. You were lucky to get through.’

  Lucky to get through. Winter shut his eyes. Bazza had known, he told himself again. He’d definitely fucking known.

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘We go to Baiona. You do your business. Señor Mackenzie asks me to look after you. That way -’ he shrugged ‘- no problema.’

  ‘And you know what happened last year? The way it went?’

  ‘Sí. Una lástima, verdad?’

  Winter shrugged. He hadn’t a clue what this man was saying but he’d caught the tiny ironic inflection in his voice. Westie and his new girlfriend blown away in an unfinished bar in the hills behind the coast. Two more bodies heading for the foundations of the latest Costa del Sol development. An event like that, profoundly shocking, will always come back to haunt you. Always.

  They were out on the main road now, heading south. To the right, beyond the advertising hoardings and the odd stand of trees, Winter caught sight of the blueness of the sea.

  ‘Esme?’ he queried.

  ‘She’s at the hotel.’

  ‘And a man called Garfield?’

  ‘He hasn’t come.’

  ‘He was due?’

  ‘Yesterday. He comes here many times. You know about Señor Garfield?’

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  Riquelme said nothing, dropping a gear and easing the Megane past a huge petrol tanker. According to Mackenzie, Riquelme controlled a sizeable chunk of the Colombian toot shipping into Spain’s Atlantic coastline. If anyone knew the workings of the cocaine business in these parts it would be Rikki.

  ‘Señor Garfield buys from people, friends of mine. He pays a good price. We like his business. But he takes risks. Risks give you trouble. Risks give everybody trouble. This we don’t like.’