Winter grinned to himself, still watching as the guy turned his body away, shielding it from Winter’s sight. Then his head went down and there was a ripple across the denim jacket as his right arm came up. It was the kind of motion you’d make if you were stifling a cough or a sneeze and Winter knew with an alarming certainty that he’d been right first time. The guy had a mike up his sleeve. They’d been following him, doubtless mob-handed. There’d be a couple more in the pub, someone round the back, a car or a scooter outside in case he made a hasty exit. They’d got him plotted up. They’d got him kippered. And the million quid at his feet told him he was in deep shit.
‘He’s definitely onto us, sir. I think he may be leaving any minute.’
‘Options?’
‘We can take him now. Favourite would be outside.’
Willard nodded. More control. Fewer punters. Less drama. But what about the handover?
‘No sign of anyone else?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Give it another minute or two.’
‘And if he leaves?’
‘Nick him.’
Winter was wondering whether to phone Mackenzie but then dismissed the idea. Whatever happened next, it would be Winter himself who’d be carrying the can. Quite how he was going to account for a million quid in fifty-pound notes was beyond him but he still had time to put some kind of story together. Maybe he’d had a big win on the lottery. Maybe he’d found the bag on a bus. Maybe he’d just look them in the eye, have a dig or two about the overtime they must be clocking up, and go No Comment just like every other decent criminal he’d ever potted.
Question three was about a character in Corrie he’d barely heard of. Was Joannie up there listening? Might one of her bright ideas get him out of this corner? He shook his head, scribbling something nonsensical, wondering whether it was better to abandon the rendezvous and bail out now or hang around for the kidnapper and give these bastards the satisfaction of two names on the charge sheet. The thought brought him to his feet. He drained his glass, bent for the bag and headed for the door.
Outside, it was still light. The Lexus was parked twenty metres away on the other side of the road. He’d last seen the guy standing next to it a couple of years back. Then he’d been a D/S on Major Crimes.
Winter stopped. A voice in his ear told him to keep walking. He could feel the warmth of the man’s breath. He half-turned, recognising the figure at the table by the door.
‘Too tough for you, mate?’ Winter shot him a grin.
‘What?’
‘The quiz.’
The man pushed him forward. Winter got to the Lexus. D/S Dave Michaels was pleased to see him.
‘Mr Winter …’ He nodded at the bag. ‘What have we here?’
‘No idea, skipper. You tell me.’
Michaels asked for his car keys. Winter obliged. Michaels unlocked the car doors and told Winter to get into the back. Winter still had the holdall. By now Michaels was in the front passenger seat, his body twisted so he could see Winter in the back. He nodded at the holdall on Winter’s lap.
‘You’ve got a key for that little padlock?’
‘No.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what’s inside?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘You’re having a joke, aren’t you? This is no way to treat old mates. I’m going to ask you again. What’s inside?’
‘No idea.’
Michaels looked at him a moment longer then shrugged. Another of the surveillance officers had a penknife. He offered it through the window but Michaels shook his head.
‘Go round there and do it yourself,’ he said.
The officer opened the rear door and squatted on his haunches in the road. He took the bag from Winter, checked the padlock, then began to cut into the mock leather. Winter sat back, his head against the soft squab, gazing into nowhere. Then he closed his eyes. He knew what a million quid looked like. He’d had enough of money.
The officer with the knife had finished. He pulled the cut apart. Winter heard the weight of Michaels’ body shifting on the seat in front of him. Then a soft curse.
‘Take it out. All of it.’
There was a rustle of paper. It didn’t sound at all like banknotes. There was more of it, then more still. Finally, Winter opened his eyes. On the road beside the holdall was a sizeable pile of second-hand books while the footwell in the back of the car was littered with balls of newsprint. Winter reached down for one, smoothing it out on his lap. It was a copy of the Portsmouth News, Monday 19 May. Pages 12 and 13. POMPEY WIN BRINGS WORLDWIDE CHEERS. Bazza again. Taking the piss.
Winter gazed at the headline for a long moment.
‘Amen to that,’ he said.
Chapter twenty-six
THURSDAY, 29 MAY 2008. 21.05
‘The Marines? Why would you ever get into something like that?’ Marie wanted to know more.
‘It’s kind of hard to remember.’ Mo Sturrock was trying to frame a proper answer. ‘I was at the old Poly for three years. I was doing a geology degree because that seemed to give me a chance to get out of the country and hunt for oil, but to be honest I was a crap student. In fact I was a crap everything. Crap at the work. Crap with women. Total wuss. Completely hopeless.’
‘Really?’ Marie glanced across at him. ‘I’m amazed.’
‘You shouldn’t be. I screwed up big time. In the end I tried the Marines, like I just said, but that didn’t work either. You need to be brave to hack the stuff they throw at you. I wasn’t.’
Marie slowed for traffic lights. A couple of hours in Bazza’s Bentley had brought them to the edges of Newhaven. Beyond the town, the last of the daylight was fading over the English Channel.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I came back home.’
‘To Portsmouth?’
‘Yeah. It wasn’t what I wanted but I had no money so that’s what happened. It was a disaster. It was like I’d come full circle, back where I started. I knew within hours I should have stuck with the Marines.’
‘Was that an option?’
‘Definitely not. I was a gawky little runt of a guy. I had big ideas and nothing to go with it. I lived in fantasy land most of the time. I could talk a good war, no problem, but when it came to the real thing I was clueless.’
‘When was this?’ Marie was trying to do the sums.
‘Middle of the Eighties. It was autumn. The training place is down in the West Country and it never stopped bloody raining. That was bad enough but the Marine instructors were still pumped up after the Falklands and they saw through me in minutes. Horrible. I chucked it in after the second week.’
For a couple of months, he said, he did bar work on the Pier. Then he met an older woman who was acting manageress in a pub on the seafront. She took him in hand.
‘She’d spotted that I was good with some of the lippier kids who used to come in, the ones who’d try it on with you. She said I had the knack of getting through to them. It was true too. I did. And I enjoyed it.’
At her suggestion, Mo asked around about jobs in Social Services. If he was serious, he’d have to go back to the Poly for another degree. This time it worked.
‘It was totally different. I knew what I wanted to do with this bit of paper they were going to give me, and that changed everything. I was having to work part time too, just to keep my head above water, and that concentrates your mind. When you’re on a grant, like before, you piss it all away. This time I was Mr Focus.’
A degree in social work won him a job in a neighbourhood team based in Buckland. The workload was brutal but he loved it.
‘Child protection enquiries. Knocking out court reports for kids taken into care. Keeping tabs on short-term placements. Turning up at the Bridewell on a Saturday night to dig the little scrotes out of the mire. All sorts. We were the finger in the dyke and everyone knew that the dyke was bursting. It just went on and on.’
‘An
d has any of that changed, do you think?’
‘What?’
‘The pressure.’
‘Not at all. If anything it’s got worse, but I guess we’re just used to it now. There are some seriously lost kids in this world and most of them haven’t got a clue what to do next. We’ve taken something away from them. They kick off, they get difficult, they’re up in court, and the really sad thing is we end up thinking it’s all their fault.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘If it’s anyone’s it’s ours.’
‘You believe that?’
‘Yes. And I’ll tell you something else. I’ve got kids of my own, three of them, and you know what? It doesn’t have to be that way.’
They were in Newhaven now. Marie spotted a sign for the cross-Channel ferry.
‘Where did Baz say?’
‘Outside the main railway station.’
‘What time?’
‘Nine fifteen. We’re looking for a black Mercedes. He didn’t have a reg number.’
The station was down in the valley. The town was ugly and most of it felt deserted. A trickle of cars headed for the ferry port. Marie pulled onto the station forecourt and stopped. There was only one cab on the rank and the driver appeared to be asleep. Mo suggested she reverse into one of the parking spots. In the gathering darkness, beyond the nearby warehouses, he could see white gashes in the fold of downland that led out to the cliffs.
‘How much do you know about this guy?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So what’s in the bag?’
‘I’ve no idea. Money, probably. Remember the key, though. He’ll need that.’
Mo grinned. The bag lay between his feet. It was black, badged with the Nike logo. Bazza had got it cheap in a sports outlet in Gunwharf. So cheap he’d bought two.
‘Why don’t we open it?’ Mo’s suggestion.
‘Bad idea. Working for my husband is one thing, Mo. Being married to him, quite another. I suppose it’s a kind of learning curve. He tells you what you need to know. Everything else he takes care of.’
‘So why isn’t he doing this?’
‘I’ve no idea. There’ll be a reason.’
‘He hasn’t told you?’
‘No.’
‘So what kind of marriage is that? Do you mind me asking?’
‘Not at all.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know the answer.’ She smiled. ‘Except it works.’
They sat in silence. It began to rain, big fat splashes on the windscreen, and the cars heading for the ferry became a blur.
‘He tells me he’s got political ambitions,’ Mo said after a while.
‘It’s true. He has.’
‘So how does that work?’
‘To be frank, I’ve no idea. I thought he was joking to begin with, but these last couple of years he’s been meeting all kinds of people - councillors, officials, so-called experts - and most of them definitely don’t impress him. He thinks he can do better. It’s probably as simple as that.’
‘But would he want to?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I think he does. Take something like Tide Turn. Baz really wants to make it work. We were talking about it the other night. Kids these days see through adults. Unless you’ve been a bit of a player, a bit of a rogue, or unless you’re rich, they’ve got no time for you.’
‘And Bazza?’
‘He’s a bit of both. They like that. Especially the rich bit.’
The silence returned. The last couple of days had taught Mo Sturrock a great deal about the Mackenzies. In his judgement, Marie was by far the sanest. She checked her watch and then adjusted the seat so she could lie back.
‘Been married long, Mo?’ she asked. Her eyes were closed.
‘Yeah. Though she’s my partner, not my wife.’
‘Happy?’
‘Very. She’s a part of me, always has been. The kids were the icing. She’s the cake.’
‘Wrong.’ Marie was smiling. ‘You’re both the cake, Mo. That’s how these things work. I bitch about my husband sometimes but he never fails to make me laugh. We’ve been in scrapes you wouldn’t believe but so far he’s never failed us.’
‘And if he did?’
‘It wouldn’t matter in the slightest. He’d still be Mad Baz and I’d still love him for it.’
Mo nodded, looked down at the bag.
‘So is this a scrape?’
‘Yes.’ Marie nodded. ‘Definitely.’
The Mercedes arrived minutes later. A small squat figure emerged from the driver’s side and crossed the car park towards them. For a moment Mo mistook him for Mackenzie. Then his face appeared at Marie’s window. Older, plumper, heavier. Marie lowered the window, readjusted the seat.
‘My husband tells me you’ve got something for him,’ she said.
The man nodded, showed her an envelope, biggish, thickish, A4. Marie looked back at Mo then nodded down at the bag. Mo exchanged it for the envelope. The man felt the weight of the bag, examined the zip. Marie watched his every move.
‘I gather we have to wait -’ she was looking at the bag ‘- while you count it.’
‘No need. We’re late.’ He nodded towards the ferry port. ‘Tell him I trust him. And tell him he’s forgiven.’
They looked at each other for a moment. The silence stretched and stretched. Finally the stranger extended a hand, palm uppermost. He had a slight squint.
‘Key?’ he queried.
Winter chose the baked cod fillet with leek fondue and oregano-scented potatoes. Bazza went for the Dorset rump of lamb dauphinois. The restaurant was pleasantly full. Beyond the carefully gathered brocade curtains, Winter could see the long curve of Studland Bay and the blueness of the hills beyond.
To his delight, Bazza had been parked up beyond the pub in Marie’s Peugeot. He’d choreographed the action perfectly and been on hand to capture the final act on his camcorder. The watchers watched. An irony for which Winter had a deep appreciation.
‘D’you mind, Baz?’
The camcorder lay between them on a thick fold of linen napkin. For the third time, Winter found the start of the sequence. Bazza was reminding the waiter that they needed the Krug now. Both bottles.
Winter gazed at the tiny screen. The hunched figure in the back of the Lexus was him. He couldn’t remember whether he’d been laughing out loud or not but that wasn’t the point. Inside, where it matters, he’d been in stitches. All that resource. All those guys on obs. All the suits back in Pompey waiting for word of some kind of result. And all they get is a bagful of books plus a load of balled-up newsprint to bulk it out.
He returned to the screen. The detectives had stepped back, allowing him to get out of the car. Then Bazza had tightened the zoom on the portly figure of D/S Dave Michaels. Winter had always had a soft spot for Michaels. He was a player, he had a sense of humour. He liked to get in amongst the bad guys and mess with their heads, and when the going got tough he wasn’t averse to a pint or two to soften the disappointment. Just now, thought Winter, there wouldn’t have been enough Stella in the world to make up for the newsprint that littered the back of the Lexus. Instead of money, a second chance to read about Pompey’s day in the Wembley sun. Instead of a sure-fire promotion, the near-certain prospect of a major role in the inquest that was bound to follow.
On the camcorder’s tiny screen Michaels was talking on a handheld radio. He walked away from the car, his spare hand chopping at the air, his whole body stiff with irritation, and Winter tried to imagine the conversation. He’d be talking, in all probability, with the SIO. It might be Faraday, it might be the woman Parsons. Given the Level Three target - Bazza - it might even be Willard. By now, wherever these clowns were, the penny would have dropped. Bazza had been pulling their pissers again. And the hunt would be on for someone to take the drop. Michaels, as far as Winter could work out, was blameless. Not his fault the intel was shit. Not his fault he’d just wasted the best part of
a Thursday evening outside some gutty pub. Not his fault that Winter, the arch-deviant, had ended up scot-free, extending a hand, wishing one and all good evening and good luck.
He watched himself now, reliving the moment he went round every one of them, a pat on the arm, a wink, a cheery goodnight, before he climbed back into the Lexus and purred smoothly away. Bazza, bless him, had recorded it all, every last frame, phoning him within seconds to announce a nearby rendezvous. A hotel called The Sandbanks, mush. Restaurant with a view to die for. Park the motor and bill the rest of the evening to your grateful boss.
Now, watching the waiter pop the top of the first bottle, Winter felt an anticipatory rush of the purest pleasure. Less than an hour ago he’d been eyeballing a return to Pompey in the back of one of the surveillance cars. After that would come the humiliation of the booking-in procedure at the Bridewell, the call to Mackenzie’s brief, the first of two or three interviews, and the indignity of spending the night in a holding cell. Quite how Willard and Co. would frame the charges was frankly guesswork but Winter knew that they’d be burning the midnight oil in a bid to bind him hand and foot. Revenge, to people like Willard, was very definitely a dish served cold.
‘Cheers, mush.’ Bazza had raised his glass.
Winter answered the toast with one of his own.
‘To crime,’ he said. ‘And capitalism.’
He’d already checked with Bazza about Guy. The kid, Baz had assured him, was alive and well. In a couple of hours he’d be back in Craneswater, reunited with Stu and with Ez. Drama over. Problem sorted.
Winter still didn’t get it. The least Bazza owed him was an explanation.
‘Easy, mush. There was something dodgy about the kidnap from the start. Stu spent a fortune on that new security system of his. So how come it never worked?’
Beyond Reach Page 32