Beyond Reach (37 page)

‘Why Aladdin, Baz?’

‘She thinks I’m a genius, mush. She thinks I magic this stuff up.’

 

Faraday took Suttle to Southampton. He’d asked the intel D/S to phone ahead and arrange a meeting with Cesar Dobroslaw. Today, it turned out, Dobroslaw was working from his office at home. He’d be delighted to give them half an hour of his time. Should he ask his lawyer to attend?

‘I told him no, boss. We’re just after a chat.’

Faraday nodded. His new TomTom had taken them to a leafy avenue on the northern edge of Southampton. Chilworth was the favoured address of the city’s high-flyers, big handsome houses in an acre or two of garden. Think Craneswater, he’d said, without the sea views. The same quiet dependence on space and a decent security system. The same glimpses of spoiled children and cosseted wives.

They found Cesar Dobroslaw up a ladder having an argument with his roofer. The house was clad in scaffolding and the roofer was reseating tiles around a new dormer window. Dobroslaw clambered down the ladder and apologised for the lack of a handshake. He was a big man, heavy-jowled, with a mane of jet-black hair swept back from his forehead. He looked like a retired boxer, Faraday thought, or someone who was considering a new career in undertaking.

They went indoors. The house was warm with shafts of late-spring sunshine panelling the carpet in the big lounge at the back. Looking round, Faraday detected a woman’s hand everywhere: in the subtleness of the paint tones, in the gold-threaded tapestries, in the choice of paintings. One in particular caught his eye, a glorious watercolour of a landscape he didn’t recognise. A huge tumble of clouds shadowed a water meadow. Cows grazed in the distance. A peasant leant on a gate, watching a pair of swans drifting on the river which dominated the canvas.

‘The Vistula.’ Dobroslaw had appeared at his elbow. ‘Near my home town.’

The voice belonged to a life-long smoker. Roll-ups to begin with, thought Faraday; these days more likely cigars.

Dobroslaw offered them a drink. He’d washed his hands in the kitchen, returning with a bottle of vodka. Faraday turned the offer down. This needn’t take long.

He asked Dobroslaw to account for his movements on Monday night. The Pole settled on the sofa.

‘I was in London,’ he said.

‘In a hotel?’

‘In a hospital. I have a mild heart condition. I was there for tests and they kept me in overnight.’

He gave Suttle the details of the hospital and the consultant. He’d come home yesterday afternoon and wouldn’t be returning to work until next week.

‘Doctor’s orders.’ He smiled. ‘Does that answer your question?’

Faraday nodded.

‘Do you know a Mr Mackenzie?’

‘Bazza Mackenzie? From Portsmouth?’ He slapped his knees, roaring with laughter. ‘Is this why you come here?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s done something? He’s made a complaint? Is that it?’

‘An allegation, Mr Dobroslaw.’

‘About what?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you.’

‘You’re not? You want me to tell you something about this man? Here …’ He beckoned Faraday closer. ‘At the end of this road is a small hotel. It’s run by friends of mine. It does very well. Excellent food, nice rooms if you have people who want a recommendation, good clean family business. Your Mr Mackenzie, he wants to buy it from them. He makes them offers. He has plans. He wants to expand, to build an extension, many more rooms. This place is perfect for the motorway, for visiting businessmen, and your Mr Mackenzie, he’s not stupid. I tell my friends, don’t sell. And then I tell them also, if you do sell I shall fight Mr Mackenzie on the planning. I know everyone round here. We don’t want Mr Mackenzie. And we don’t want his hotel. So … an allegation … What a surprise, eh?’

Minutes later, heading east again, it was Suttle who voiced the obvious.

‘Dalton was right, boss. Smoke up our arse. I wonder how many other accounts Bazza wants us to settle?’

THURSDAY, 29 MAY 2008. 10.10

Mackenzie and Winter were back in Sandown Road in time to catch Esme eating her breakfast. Stu was sitting beside her at the big kitchen table cutting thin slices of white toast into soldiers. Lucy and Kate were resisting their mother’s attempts to make them sit down. The boiled eggs, Esme said, would be getting cold. Up to you.

‘Christ.’ Mackenzie took the rucksack from Winter and tossed it into the corner by the window. ‘You lot want to be careful. This looks almost normal.’

Marie was at the Aga. She glanced round, trying to smile, trying to add something extra to this tiny flicker of returning warmth, but Winter could see the effort she had to make. Alone in this broken family she seemed to understand the enormity of what was going on.

Lucy, perched on her wooden stool at the table, waited while her father peeled fragments of shell from the top of her egg. He spooned a generous dollop of yolk onto one of the soldiers, just the way Lucy liked it, but when he turned back to her, she’d gone.

‘That’s mine!’ She’d dived onto the pink rucksack.

Winter moved quickly to retrieve it but he was too late. As soon as Lucy unzipped the top, a cascade of fifty-pound notes fell out. She stared at them, delighted, then shook the rucksack until it was empty. A million pounds lay on Marie’s kitchen floor. No one moved. Even Esme, for once, looked impressed.

‘Where did that come from?’

‘The bank,’ Mackenzie told her. ‘You think we keep this stuff under the mattress?’

Winter was watching Lucy grab handfuls of the banknotes and throw them up in the air. Then, barefoot, she started dancing on them, more flurries of pink as she did stagey little pirouettes, kicking out sideways with her tiny feet. Her sister wanted to dance too but Lucy pushed her away. Surreal, Winter thought.

Marie wiped her hands on a tea towel and grabbed the kids before handing them to Stu.

‘Upstairs,’ she said. ‘Now.’

Stu did her bidding, chasing them out of the door. As ever, Lucy began to howl as she tramped up to her bedroom. Winter couldn’t be sure but he thought the child had hung onto a couple of the notes. A hundred quid would buy a lot of banana smoothies.

In the kitchen, Marie had emptied the vegetable basket. She began to refill it with banknotes, later after layer. Mackenzie told her it didn’t matter, he’d sort the money out later, but she shot him a look.

‘Your girlfriend’s back any minute,’ she said quietly. ‘You want her to see all this?’

Mackenzie didn’t. Neither did Winter. Stu watched all three of them pack the money into the basket. By the end, there was just enough room for a top dressing of onions, carrots and broccoli. Marie slid the basket back under the work surface. She too wanted to know what her husband was up to.

‘It’s just in case,’ he said.

‘Just in case what?’

‘Just in case I can talk this guy down. There’s a million quid there. He can have it this afternoon, tonight, whenever. Just as long as we get Guy back. Isn’t that right, Stu?’

Stu nodded, said nothing. Winter was looking at him hard.

Marie wanted to know how this thing would work.

‘Work? We just do it. The guy phones again. I talk to him. I explain that ten million quid’s silly money. I tell him ten million quid’s going to buy him a lot of trouble because no way do I give that kind of moolah away without having the Filth on board. A million, on the other hand, is different. For a million I can do him a nice discreet private job. We fix a meet, I get the boy, he gets the money.’

‘And the police?’

‘Are nowhere.’

‘How come?’

‘Because I’ll tell them I’ve had enough. It’s our blood, our grandson, our decision. We’ve decided to play it our way, not theirs.’

‘Your way.’

‘Whatever.’ He looked across at her, his face beginning to colour.

‘You’ve got a problem with any of that? Only now’s the time to say.’

Marie stared at him. Then came a ring from the front door bell. ‘You think that’s Helen?’

Marie nodded. ‘You’re off your head.’ She was still looking at her husband. ‘You know that?’

Esme went to the front door. Not Helen Christian at all but Mo Sturrock. He appeared in the kitchen. Winter could hear Esme’s footsteps on the stairs, then a squeal from the girls as she stepped into their bedroom. For once, thought Winter, she seemed to be taking an interest in her family.

Sturrock nodded at Mackenzie.

‘You just got me in time,’ he said. ‘I was off home on the hovercraft. ’

‘Yeah?’ Mackenzie got to his feet and headed for the den. ‘Come with me, son. There’s stuff we need to talk about.’

 

Helen Christian took the news back to Major Crimes. In Faraday’s absence, she knocked on DCI Parsons’ door. The DCI, in conference with Willard, asked her to come back later but Willard put a hand on Parsons’ arm. He’d seen the expression on the FLO’s face, knew it might be important.

‘He doesn’t want us around any more,’ she said.

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘Mackenzie. I got there a bit late this morning. He’s saying he’ll handle it his way not ours.’

‘He can’t,’ Willard said at once.

‘Why not, sir?’

‘Because he’ll be aiding and abetting. This guy’s a criminal. Mackenzie’s making it easy for him. That’s collusion. Conspiracy. Plus it taints his own money, assuming he plans to pay up. We could have him on any number of charges.’

‘Maybe he wants his grandson back.’ This from Parsons.

‘We all want his grandson back. The question is how. You buy this man off, how many other kids does he lift?’

The question went unanswered. Arguing with the Head of CID in this mood was a lousy career move. At length, Parsons enquired what he wanted
Causeway
to do next.

‘We need Faraday,’ he said. ‘Where the fuck is he?’

 

Faraday had fixed to meet the engineer from the alarm company at Esme’s property. The au pair let him in. Evzenie wanted to find out when she might expect Mr and Mrs Norcliffe to be back in residence. Faraday said he didn’t know. The kidnap was at a tricky stage. It was better, for now, that the family were all under one roof in Craneswater.

‘It goes well?’

‘No.’

‘Guy?’ She blinked.

‘We don’t know.’

Evzenie fled to the kitchen. Faraday circled the big lounge at the back of the house. A couple of sensors protected the tall French doors that opened out onto a terrace and there was another on the facing wall. He lingered a moment, inspecting the nest of photos on the mantelpiece. Happier times had taken the Norcliffe family to an exotic-looking beach with the purest white sand. The kids were younger, only Guy on his feet, and the palm trees in the background suggested somewhere Caribbean. Looking at Stu, Faraday could imagine the future that this man had every reason to trust. His face was plastered with sunblock but his arm circled Esme’s perfectly tanned shoulders and with two babies in his lap he looked the proudest father in the world. The family had money, freedom and each other. There was nowhere on the planet they couldn’t go, no passing whim they couldn’t satisfy. If they got fed up with life in the country they could move. If seven acres wasn’t enough they could buy more. In a world stuffed with goodies, they had limitless choice. Now this.

Faraday climbed the stairs then checked the bedrooms one by one. Each one was protected by zonal sensors, and there were more on the top landing, but the truth was that no security system in the world could offer 100 per cent protection because the real threat came from within. Not the balaclava-clad intruder somehow ducking all these high-tech sentries but the restlessness in Esme’s eyes. You could see it in the pictures on the mantelpiece, a sense of unslaked curiosity that had led, of all people, to Perry Madison.

The au pair was waiting for Faraday at the foot of the stairs. She wanted to know whether he’d prefer tea or coffee. He said no to both but wanted to know more about Guy.

‘How trusting was he?’

Evzenie looked confused. Faraday wondered whether she had a problem with the word ‘trusting’ but it was the tense he’d used that had thrown her.

‘
Was?
You think he’s …’ her eyes were shiny again ‘… dead?’

‘I meant
is
, I’m sorry. And no, I don’t. I think he’s still alive.’

‘Good.’ She nodded vigorously, as if to reinforce the possibility.

‘Good. He trusts everyone, that little boy. He trusts me, he trusts people who come, friends who come. He’s very easy, very strong, very grown up. He’s a lovely boy. Very brave. I love him. Everyone loves him.’

‘So you think … now - given what’s happened - he can cope?’

‘I think yes, for someone so small, so young, yes. The girls, they are different. Guy? He makes me so proud.’

‘A survivor?’

‘Always.’

‘Good.’ Through the open door to the kitchen Faraday could see the boiling kettle. ‘Tea please. I’ve changed my mind.’

The engineer from the security company arrived minutes later. He walked Faraday around the system, explaining a recent update. All the zoned areas were linked by wireless to a central control unit. If any of the motion sensors tripped then a recorded message would automatically be sent to five approved numbers, backed in the case of mobiles by texts. A sixth report would go to an authorised Hantspol number. There was also a 125-decibel alarm that would sound both inside and outside. In theory, at least, the house was intruder-proof.

‘Mr Norcliffe says he had a problem last weekend.’

‘That’s right.’

The engineer had a file. He hadn’t attended personally but he’d spoken this morning to his colleague, who’d driven down from Alton. He’d tested every component in the system and found nothing wrong.

‘Is that common?’