Cut To Black

by Hurley, Graham

  Willard was watching the harbour entrance, his eyes narrowed against the flaring sun. When Faraday asked him how much the fort’s owner, the German woman, knew about the sting, he smiled. Spit Bank, he said, had been offered for sale by the Ministry of Defence in the ‘80s. The buyer, an ex-boatyard owner, had spent a fortune getting it into some kind of shape. Fifteen years later, he’d sold it on to a wealthy businessman, eager to find a project for his wife.

  “This is the German woman?”

  “Gisela Mendel. You’ll meet her in a minute. Peter Mendel’s an arms broker, covers the gaps between the defence salespeople in the MOD and the dodgier foreign governments. It’s a semi-Whitehall job. He’s security-cleared, full PV.”

  The positive vetting, Willard said, made him a perfect partner in the sting against Mackenzie. Given his relationship with the MOD, there was no way he’d hazard the operation.

  “And the wife?”

  “She runs a series of language modules for Fort Monkton. Four-week total immersion courses out on Spit Bank, any language of your choice. She charges the earth.”

  “Monkton’s MI6.”

  “That’s right. That’s why she’s PV’d as well. Hayder couldn’t believe his luck. All he had to do was write the script.”

  Faraday could imagine Nick Hayder’s glee. Fort Monkton was a government-run training establishment across the harbour in leafy Alverstoke. Screened by trees and an eight-foot wire fence, it turned out spies for MI6. Posted abroad, languages were a must. Hence, Faraday assumed, the success of Gisela Mendel’s little enterprise.

  “So how did you play it?”

  “Gisela put the word round a couple of local estate agencies,

  pretending the fort was up for sale, just the way we asked her. Mackenzie was onto her within a day.”

  “She knows who Mackenzie is? His background?”

  “No, he’s just a punter as far as she’s concerned, someone who’s made a pile of money and now wants somewhere really high-profile.”

  “And you think she believes that?”

  “She’s never told me otherwise.” Willard permitted himself a rare smile. “You hear about the football club?”

  “No.”

  “Mackenzie tried to buy in. He was after an eleven per cent stake. With that kind of holding, he’d be looking to take Pompey over.”

  “And?”

  “They saw him coming and knocked the deal on the head. After that, he made a play for the pier.”

  “South Parade?”

  “Yeah. Problem there was he put in a silly bid and tried to snow them with all kinds of pressure. They got so pissed off in the end, they pulled the plug, and you can hardly blame them. Mackenzie’s so used to dealing with low life that he forgets his manners. Quote the guy an asking price, and he instantly divides by ten. Ten. That’s not negotiation, that’s robbery. The pier people walked, big time, and then one of them found himself talking to Nick.”

  This conversation, according to Willard, sowed a seed in Nick Hayder’s ever-fertile mind. By this time, Tumbril had abandoned any thought of baiting the usual investigative traps. There was no way Mackenzie allowed himself anywhere near the distribution system and therefore no prospect of scooping him up with half a kilo of uncut Peruvian. The other strategy following the money might, in the end, achieve the same result via a money-laundering conviction but Tumbril’s hotshot accountant was talking another three months minimum with the calculator and the spreadsheets and both Hayder and Willard himself were nervous that headquarters’ patience might not stretch that far. Somehow or other, there had to be another way.

  “So?” Faraday was beginning to warm to this conversation. At last, he thought, the pieces are beginning to fit.

  “So Hayder took a good look at what happened with Mackenzie over the pier. Number one, the guy’s determined to get his name up there in lights. He owes it to himself, to his mates. He wants the world to know there’s nothing he can’t buy. Number two, he’s after a casino.”

  “A casino?”

  “Sure. Make Mackenzie’s kind of money and the big problem is washing it all. You can carry it out of the country and stuff it in foreign accounts. You can treat yourself to a couple of Picassos. You can buy into legit businesses, bricks and mortar, whatever. If you’ve got the patience, you can even launder it through bureaux de change. Brian Imber will be giving you the full brief tomorrow but the truth is we’re knocking all these options on the head. Believe me, it’s getting hard to wash dodgy money. A casinos solves a lot of that. Plus he smiled ‘there was still the question of profile.”

  A casino on the pier would have been the answer to Mackenzie’s dreams. Punters would flood in, the tables would magic dirty money into legitimate winnings, and everyone in Pompey would know that Bazza Mackenzie had finally made it.

  “So Nick started looking for another property, another proposition. You know he used to go running?”

  “Still will, when he’s better.”

  “Sure. So he was out there one weekend, hammering along the seafront when bosh he’s staring out to sea and he suddenly realises the answer. Spit Bank Fort. This is him talking, not me.”

  Faraday knew it was true. He could hear Nick Hayder’s voice, picture him leaning into the conversation, his head lowered, his hands chopping the air. This was the way the man had always operated, total conviction, turning a gleam in the eye into a string of successful prosecutions. The latter happened way down the line, but without the wit and the balls to pull some truly original stroke, the bad guys were home free.

  “Mackenzie put a bid in?”

  “At once. 200,000. Said it had to be rock bottom because sorting the place out would cost a fortune. Gisela wouldn’t drop a penny under the asking price. One and a quarter million.”

  Slowly, week by week, Mackenzie had gone to 550,000, each new trip to the fort confirming the vision that had begun to obsess him. A glass dome, he’d told Gisela, would seal the interior from wind and rain. Punters could look down on the gaming floor from the upper deck. Croupiers would be dressed in period blue artillery tunics. Girlies in naughty Parisian gear would serve drinks and canapes. And every night, with the gaming over, there’d be yet more boodle stashed away in the thick-walled cartridge magazines deep in the bowels of the fort. Spit Bank, to Hayder’s delight, had become Mackenzie’s dream fantasy, the clinching evidence that the Copnor boy had well and truly made it.

  “That’s why Wallace came as a bit of a shock. He was Mackenzie’s wake-up call.”

  Faraday was trying to put himself in Mackenzie’s shoes. After all the plans, all the gloating phone calls to his mates, came the sudden news that some total stranger had stepped into the city and virtually doubled his bid. As a wind-up, it was undeniably sweet. But as a potential sting, thought Faraday, it still had some way to go.

  “Mackenzie’s after a meet. Before Wallace puts the surveyors in.”

  “I know.” Willard nodded. “We needed to back Mackenzie up against a deadline, make him sweat. That’s why Wallace has the surveyors on standby for Friday next week. My guess is we’re probably talking Wednesday or Thursday for the meet.”

  Faraday smiled. He was thinking of Wallace in the hotel room earlier. The over-loud tie, the ear stud, the brash little touches. Young guy on the make. Clever.

  “You really think Mackenzie has him down as a dealer? Same line of business?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “And you think he believes it?”

  “I’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t.”

  Faraday turned the proposition over in his mind. Turf was important, whatever line of business you happened to be in. The last thing Mackenzie needed was serious competition, and in a city like Portsmouth there was an added complication. Pompey belonged to her own. Intruders like Wallace needed reminding of that.

  “So how will Mackenzie play it? Violence? Half a dozen mates round the corner?”

  “Maybe.” Willard shrugged. “Or he might just try bu
ying him off. If he’s silly enough to talk drugs, or some kind of co-distribution deal, we’re home and dry. If it’s a straightforward bung, he’s still exposed himself. Either way, we end up with evidence. And not before time, eh?”

  Willard broke off. He’d picked up the distant thump-thump of a fast inflatable and he turned in time to catch the rib powering down for the passage up-harbour. The controls were manned by a slight, solitary figure in a blue anorak. Minutes later, Willard was doing the introductions.

  “Gisela Mendel.” Willard nodded towards Faraday. “Joe Faraday. I mentioned him on the phone.”

  Faraday smiled hello. Her handshake was businesslike. The big outboards were still idling below them. She needed to be back at the fort asap.

  “No problem.”

  Willard had taken charge, bending to slip the rope she’d made fast to the bollard, and Faraday sensed at once that there was something between them. He’d rarely seen Willard so animated, so eager. He seemed to have shed years.

  Faraday clambered down into the inflatable and zipped up his anorak. Gisela, behind her dark glasses, was waiting for Willard to cast off. Her hand was ready on the twin throttles perfect nails, blood red. When she turned to check the clearance beyond the bow, the last of the sunshine shadowed the planes of her face. Mid forties, thought Faraday. Maybe less.

  Once Willard was on board, she eased away from the jetty, burbling out towards the harbour. The wind was stronger here, the slap of halyards against the masts of a line of moored yachts, and once they’d cleared the harbour entrance, she pushed the throttles wide open against the stops.

  The inflatable responded at once, surging forward, and Faraday braced himself, glad he’d rescued a woollen scarf from the Mondeo. Willard was sitting beside him, oblivious to the freezing spray. Twice he shouted something to Gisela but the wind and the roar of the outboards carried his words away. Watching her at the wheel, Faraday realised how often she must have made this journey. She rode the inflatable like a horse, with immense skill, driving it hard at the oncoming waves then nudging left and right as she felt for the grain of the flooding tide. Over towards Ryde, Faraday could see the bulk of a container ship, outward bound from Southampton, and when he looked back towards the shoreline he thought he could just make out the line of apartments next to South Parade pier, white in the gathering dusk.

  The tidal stream around the fort, a foaming river of water, made berthing tricky. Faraday could smell the dampness of the place, sense the history behind the glistening granite blocks. Willard was playing the sailor again, doing his best to grab a stanchion as the inflatable surged up and down, and Faraday caught the expression on Gisela’s face as she nudged the bow towards the waiting pair of hands on the landing stage above them. She looked amused.

  A rope ladder provided access to the landing stage. Willard caught a wave as he waited a second too long and was soaking wet by the time Faraday hauled him upwards. Gisela was the last off, leaving the inflatable to be secured for the return trip.

  They followed her into the fort. It was nearly dark now, and the vaulted passageway that led to the central courtyard was softly lit by wall lights cleverly recessed into the granite walls. There were more of these feminine touches in the courtyard itself tubs of year-round flowers, a sturdy little palm tree, tables and chairs warmed by a thicket of space heaters but there was no disguising the essence of this place. A sense of military purpose hung over everything. It was there in the brick-lined casemates around the edge of the courtyard, in the iron spiral staircase that disappeared into the bowels of the fort, in the hand-lettered notices that Gisela had so carefully preserved. Number 14 Store Hammocks, read one. Caution Shell Lift, warned another.

  “We use these two as classrooms. The rest is accommodation.” Gisela had paused outside one of the casemates.

  Faraday peered in. Perhaps a dozen figures sat at individual desks. A tutor was standing at the front, a map of the Balkans on the blackboard behind him. One of the women in the class had her hand in the air.

  “You want to eavesdrop?”

  “No.” It was Willard. The soaking on the ladder had tested his sense of humour. He wanted a towel and something hot to drink.

  “So.” Gisela’s English carried the faintest trace of a foreign inflection. “Upstairs, then.”

  She led the way across the courtyard and up another flight of steps. At the top, Faraday recognised the white structure he’d glimpsed earlier from Eadie’s flat. A newly painted door opened into a tiny lobby. It was suddenly warm inside and there was a smell of fresh flowers. This was obviously where Gisela lived.

  “You know where the bathroom is. I’ll make tea.”

  Willard disappeared and Faraday followed Gisela into a living room. The wide picture windows faced north, across the deep-water shipping lane, and Faraday could make out the line of coloured lights that ran the length of Southsea promenade. Beyond them, in the gloom, the black spire of St. Jude’s church.

  “You drink tea?” Her voice came through a hatch from the galley kitchen.

  “Please. Two sugars.”

  Faraday gazed round. The room had been furnished with some care, neat rather than cosy. A compact, two-seat sofa faced the window. There was a television in one corner and a fold-down table in another. The laptop on the table was open and the screen saver featured a view down an Alpine valley. Faraday’s attention was caught by a framed photo propped beside a row of paperbacks in the bookcase above the table. It showed Gisela in a striking yellow hat beside a heavy-set man in his middle fifties. The man was bowing. Gisela was performing an elegant curtsey. The third figure in the photograph was the Queen.

  “Buck House garden party.” Willard had emerged from the bathroom. “Hubby got the CBE.”

  “For?”

  “Services to the nation. Merchant of death.”

  “He lives here, too?”

  “Visits very occasionally. They’ve got a place up in Henley, river frontage, paddocks for the horses, the lot. You could fit Kingston Crescent into the walled garden with room to spare.”

  Faraday at last turned round. Willard had found a sweater from somewhere, an expensive polo neck in black cashmere wool, almost a perfect fit. The man in the photo, thought Faraday. Similar build.

  Gisela returned with a tray of tea. She turned off the laptop and made space on the table. Willard organised another couple of chairs from the room next door and then got down to business. For Faraday’s benefit, he wanted Gisela to describe her dealings with Bazza Mackenzie.

  Gisela was looking amused again, that same expression, and Faraday found himself wondering quite where this relationship parted company with Tumbril. Willard never let anyone in the job anywhere near his private life but there’d always been rumours that the partner in Bristol wasn’t quite enough.

  “He phoned first, very friendly. That was a couple of months ago. Just after Christmas. He’d heard this place was for sale and he wanted to come out and take a look. He arrived next day.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. He came with a couple of friends, both of them older. Tommy?” She was looking at Willard. l]aV

  “Tommy Cross.” Willard nodded. “Used to work in the dockyard. Bazza uses him as a cut-price structural engineer, sorts out the conversions when Mackenzie’s in the mood for another cafe-bar. It was Tommy who gave this place the once-over. Stayed most of the day, didn’t he? Drove you mad?” He flashed a smile at Gisela.

  “That’s right. Lunch and supper. It was dark by the time they went.”

  Within twenty-four hours, she said, Mackenzie had been back on the phone. He’d drawn up a contract. He had a price in mind. All Gisela had to do was sign.

  “As simple as that?” It was Faraday’s turn to smile. This was where Mackenzie’s list of problems must have come from. Letting Tommy Cross loose on a structure like Spit Bank Fort might have been the best investment Mackenzie ever made. Except that Gisela wasn’t having it.

  “I turned him down. 200,000 w
as a joke and I told him so. It cost me 385,000 before I even started.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He laughed. He said he didn’t blame me. He also said something else.”

  “What was that?”

  “He said I was a nightmare to do business with.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was tasty as well as clever.”

  “He said that? Tasty? That was the word he used?”

  “Yes. I think he meant it as a compliment. To be honest, I didn’t care. That’s the kind of person he is. In your face. Right there.” She held her hand in front of her nose. “After some of my husband’s clients, believe me, that’s a relief.”

  “You liked him?”

  “Yes, I do. He’s not frightened of women. And he’s straightforward, too. A silly offer like 200,000? All I have to do is say no. I can live with that.”

  Within a week, Mackenzie was back on the phone. He’d had a bit of a think. He could go to 250,000. Once again, Gisela just laughed.

  “And it went on,” she said. “Another 10,000, another 10,000. In the end I said there were easier ways to chat a woman up. He agreed.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He invited me out. We went to Gunwharf, Forty Below. You know it?”

  Faraday nodded. Forty Below featured in most of the weekend disturbance reports. Ambulance crews set their clocks by Friday night’s first call to a serious affray. This woman could take her pick of Europe’s finest restaurants. Only Bazza Mackenzie would treat her to Forty Below.

  “How did you get on?”

  “Fine. He made me laugh. I liked that.”

  “And the fort? The business?”

  “He said he had to have it. He told me all about his plans, the casino, the decor, the kind of food he wanted to serve, special suites for honeymooners. He was like a kid with a new toy. It was sweet, really.”