Beyond Reach (12 page)

‘Still friends, are you?’

‘Blood brothers. Inseparable.’

‘No regrets about leaving the Job?’

‘None.’

She gave him a look then asked how she could help. If Mackenzie was serious about sorting out wayward kids and had money to spare she’d be the last person to stand in his way.

‘He’s got loads of money. He practically invented the stuff. And he’s happy to spend a decent whack on Tide Turn. In fact he insists.’

‘Good. So what do you need from me?’

Winter explained that he was standing aside. The Trust needed a new Chief Executive, someone to drive it forward, someone who understood the real challenge that these kinds of kids were offering.

‘I’ve been the midwife,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought it into the world. Now it needs someone who knows what they’re doing.’

Carol was thinking hard. She knew exactly the hole that Winter had dug for himself. More importantly, she sensed the makings of a solution.

‘You need someone with lots of local authority experience,’ she said. ‘That’s going to be a man or a woman in their forties. They’ll have been at the coalface as a social worker. They’ll have climbed the ladder - Senior Practitioner, Deputy Team Leader, all that stuff. They might be a Service Manager by now. That’s someone with real clout, believe me.’

‘So why would they want to join us?’

‘Because the higher you get, the tougher the frustrations become.’ She beckoned Winter closer. ‘In our little world, pet, we get short-changed all the time. Politicians are brilliant with the sound bites. Every child matters. Early intervention. Positive outcomes. The integration agenda. But every single one of these phrases comes with a price tag. And the truth is, no one’s prepared to cough up. Now that’s bad enough at the sharp end - people like me can give you chapter and verse on what we could do with more resources. But by the time you get towards the top of the tree you find people - good people, clever people - tearing their hair out. These guys are under siege. Wherever you look, society’s falling apart. Whether it’s booze or drugs or domestic violence or poverty, families can’t cope any more. And so the bosses, my bosses, have got the world knocking on their door, demanding the impossible, and there’s absolutely no way they can deliver. Not under the current lot. Probably not ever.’ She leaned back again, spearing cake crumbs with a wettened fingertip. Then she looked up. ‘Have you got the picture, pet, or am I going too fast for you?’

Winter shook his head. All that sounded fine. But how on earth could he lay hands on these people?

‘You do what everyone else does, pet. You advertise. It costs a fortune but in the end it works.’

She named a handful of publications. The
Guardian
’s Wednesday supplement.
Community Care. Young People Today.

Winter wasn’t convinced. If advertising meant months of waiting for the right bunch of interviewees to turn up then it was a no-no. The last thing he had was time.

‘I’m not with you.’

‘I need someone now, love. Someone who’s got the experience. Someone who knows the city. Someone who can turn up to work tomorrow, hand in their notice, and be with us by next month.’

‘Why are you looking at me, pet?’

‘Three guesses.’

‘No way.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m an honest woman.’

‘What are you on at the moment?’

‘Don’t be cheeky.’

‘We’ll double it.’

‘No. Believe it or not, I like my job. Some days I even love it.’ She broke off, checking her watch and then peering at the traffic outside. ‘I’ll have a little think tonight and give you a ring in the morning.’

‘About whether to say yes or no?’

‘About anyone else you might like to consider.’

 

Faraday drove Steph Callan back to the Marriott. In the interests of the coming days, maybe even weeks, he suggested a drink before she returned to Eastleigh. She hesitated a moment beside her car then said yes. Faraday had a glimpse of what looked like a lifejacket in the back of the estate.

‘You go sailing?’

‘Kite surfing. It’s become an addiction.’

‘Difficult?’

‘Very. They warn you how hard it’s going to be to begin with but no one ever tells you it gets tougher.’ She pocketed her keys and shot him a wary grin. ‘Bit like the Job, really.’

The bar in the Marriott was beginning to fill up. Men in jeans and sports shirts, newly pinked by a session in the hotel gym. Single women in business suits, bent over laptops. Faraday bought himself a pint of Guinness. Steph settled for lime and soda.

‘It’s yoga tonight,’ she explained. ‘I find it helps.’

‘The soft drink?’

‘The yoga.’

‘Helps with what?’

‘Pretty much everything really.’ She reached for the drink. ‘Cheers.’

Earlier, after they’d left Mrs Morrissey, they’d done a series of house-to-house calls up the road, asking whether anyone had seen the VW camper leaving late on Saturday night. This would normally have been the job of local CID but Faraday knew how pressed they were. At every address they’d drawn a blank. Yes, the big red van was often parked outside number 33. And no, they definitely hadn’t seen some young scrote nicking it.

‘She’s lying, isn’t she?’

‘Definitely.’ Faraday nodded. ‘She’s got the motivation. For some reason she must have been out late Saturday night, which means she probably had the opportunity. Plus we’re looking at a red VW camper. This is someone who works in the medical field. She’ll know about DNA. She’ll realise what we can do with that vehicle. So once she’s run the guy over, what’s the first thing she does?’

‘She bins it.’

‘Sure. But where?’

First thing in the morning Faraday would task Jimmy Suttle to pay Mrs Morrissey another visit. They needed an association chart, a list of friends and relatives she might trust to look after her precious camper van. The front would have impact damage. Bits of Kyle Munday would still be hanging underneath. One way or another, she had to get rid of that evidence. Not easy.

Steph was worrying about the timeline. Once Mrs Morrissey had dumped the van, did she come home again? If the garage or lock-up was somewhere local, would she have made that journey on foot? Or if it turned out that the camper was secured miles away, should they be looking at a lift with a friend? Or a call to a taxi firm?

The questions went on and on, a net of suppositions designed to snare her alibi and test it to breaking point. DCI Parsons, meanwhile, would have to make a decision about applying for billing records on her mobile phone and landline. She may have made calls after the accident. If her mobile was switched on, cell site analysis might be able to track her movements. More questions for when they finally got Jeanette Morrissey down to the interview suite at the Bridewell.

‘So what do you think?’ Steph again. ‘Three days? Four? Longer than that? Only I’m off to Greece at the end of next week.’

Faraday was still musing about the first question. Guinness was something he hated to rush.

‘I think it’s a shame,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve read the file. I was at the
Melody
post-mortem back in November. I saw what Munday, if it was Munday, did to that kid. His mum was traumatised by what happened. Not just then but before, with all the bullying. Anyone would be. And for my money, for what it’s worth, she’ll never get over it. You heard her this afternoon. For once in her life she’s looking at a result. The guy’s dead. He died horribly. It wasn’t pretty. You know that better than anyone. And if it turns out to be her that ran him over, and we can prove it, then …’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I’d blame her.’

‘You’re suggesting we pack it in? Turn a blind eye? Go through the motions?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then this is all a bit of a wank, isn’t it?’

The suggestion brought a smile to Faraday’s face. ‘You think I’m getting soft in the head?’

‘I haven’t a clue. I’ve only known you three days. But until someone tells me different I’m assuming I’m here to collect evidence. What a bunch of lawyers, or a jury, does with that evidence is down to them. Are we on the same page, boss, or am I missing something?’

Faraday shook his head. He felt, all of a sudden, unaccountably old.

‘Somewhere nice in Greece?’ he enquired, reaching for his glass.

 

Marie cooked that night while Mackenzie and Winter sat at the kitchen table, a bottle of decent malt between them. The big house in Craneswater’s Sandown Road had become a second home to Winter over the course of the last nine months, a tacit thank you for sorting out the complicated homicide investigation that had begun with two dead bodies beside Bazza’s pool, but this was the first time he’d seen Bazza’s new souvenir corkboard.

It occupied half the back wall in the kitchen and was covered with pictures from the Wembley final. Bazza and his mates dismounting from the hired executive chopper. The same bunch of faces, arms linked, dancing up Olympic Way. A blur of blue and white from the Pompey end seconds before the ref got the first half going. Shots of the crowd erupting after Kanu slotted the winner. Shots of Calamity James lofting the Cup on the team’s post-match lap of the stadium. A late-night snap of Bazza, pissed as a rat, at an undisclosed party somewhere in the depths of Southsea. This, Bazza told everyone who’d listen, had been the happiest day of his fucking life.
The
happiest day. No bullshit.

Now the mood was darker. Pompey’s staunchest fan was trying to assess exactly how much damage his crazy daughter had inflicted on years of inspired criminality. Which meant, in turn, suppressing an urge to jump in his new motor, head for the Meon Valley, and throttle the life out of her.

‘No point, Baz.’ Winter had said it before. ‘Absolutely none. Treat it like a business problem.’

‘Sure. Easy as that.’

‘Hard, Baz. But think about it. We know she’s a goner as far as Madison is concerned. It doesn’t matter how and it doesn’t matter why. What matters is what she may have said already. She says she wouldn’t and she hasn’t. You know her better than me. What’s that really worth?’

‘A lot.’ It was Marie. ‘Esme can be a little witch but she’s pretty straight when it comes to family.’

‘You have to be fucking joking.’ Mackenzie uncapped the Scotch. ‘Have you tried to talking to Stu lately?’

‘Stu’s different.’

‘You said family.’

‘Stu’s her husband. We’re family. You and me. Maybe even Paul.’

‘Great. And you really think that would keep her mouth shut? When this animal is crawling all over her? She’s a woman, love. Women lose it totally, just piss it up against the wall then get all absent-minded afterwards.’

‘You’d know that, would you?’ Marie had stopped stirring the Béarnaise sauce.

‘Of course I fucking would. You think I’m blind? Deaf? I’m telling you, Ezzie’s lost it.’ He threw an arm towards the darkness beyond the kitchen window. ‘We may as well leave all the doors fucking open tonight. Let them help themselves.’

‘Who’s “them”, Baz?’ Winter was determined to head off a full-blown domestic.

‘The Filth. The Old Bill. Madison’s lot. Your lot.’

‘But what, exactly, could she have told him?’

Mackenzie lowered his head, staring at the tattoo on the back of his right hand. This was the crux and he knew it.

‘She could have told him lots, mush.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like what we got up to in the old days. The way we did it. The way we shipped the toot in. How we handled distribution. How we washed the money. All the fun and games we had getting all those old bastards out of all them houses we bought for development. She was part of all that, Ezzie. She saw it happen.’

‘She was a kid, Baz.’ It was Marie again. ‘She was a teenager. All she was interested in was boys and crap music.’

Winter nodded. Laying the foundations of Mackenzie’s empire had never been a pretty sight. Investing narco-loot in run-down property had been exactly the right decision but there’d been a lot of intimidation on the way, plus helping after helping of carefully applied violence. Yet Marie was right. The last thing on Ezzie’s young mind had been where the money they all enjoyed might have come from.

‘What about later?’ Bazza was brooding again. ‘What about Dubai? Spain? The yacht charter business in Gibraltar? What about all that?’

‘All legit, Baz. As Ezzie well knows. Fuck me, she drew up most of the contracts.’

‘Sure. But what about …’ Bazza frowned, hunting for the killer fact that would cement his argument. ‘Westie?’

There was a long silence. Winter could smell burning.

‘I know nothing about Westie,’ he said.

‘Yes you do, mush. You were fucking sitting there.’

‘You’re wrong, Baz. As far as Westie and me are concerned, it never happened.’

‘What are you saying, mush? You didn’t fly down to Spain with us? I didn’t give you twenty-five grand in notes? You didn’t wait for Westie in that building site of a fucking hotel? You didn’t watch Tommy Peters blow his face off?’

‘It never happened, Baz,’ Winter said again. ‘I’ll deny everything. Not that Ezzie knows …’

Both men fell silent while the tacit question hung in the air. Brett West had once been Bazza’s favourite enforcer but last year he’d broken every rule in the book. And been killed for it.

Marie had abandoned the sauce.

‘Esme doesn’t know,’ she said quietly.

‘You’re sure?’ Bazza didn’t believe her.

‘Positive. She never liked Brett anyway, always did her best to avoid him.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He tried to come on to her one night. She’d bumped into him in some club or other. This was years back. She was silly enough to accept a lift home.’

‘And?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘The fuck I don’t. Why didn’t you tell me at the time?’