Happy Days (34 page)

‘Exactly.’

‘And when did you do this?’

‘The day before yesterday.’

‘Helpful, were they?’

‘Very.’

‘Surprised?’

‘Of course.’

‘So when you asked them to look after me, did you expect them to haul me off? Check out my passport? Airline tickets? Bag?’

‘No way.’

‘So when they got in touch yesterday and told you about Mr Sparrow standing there in the rain, what did you say?’

‘We said there must have been some mistake.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘They wouldn’t have it. They described you.’

‘Fat old bastard? Suede car coat? No hair?’

‘Spot on.’

‘And that’s why you had to check for yourself?’ Winter nodded down at the passport. ‘Just now?’

‘Of course.’

‘OK.’ Winter frowned. ‘So let’s go back to Beginski. So far you know fuck all about him except he worked for Skelley and did a runner to Poland back in February, yeah?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Since when he’s been off the radar?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But you tried to flag him up, right? And that means Interplod, yes?’

‘Correct.’

‘And failed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Which means the guy’s got no previous. Right?’

‘None that we know of.’

‘Else you’d have got a call from the locals?’

‘Of course.’

Winter nodded, taking his time. He’d never seen Suttle so uncertain, so shamefaced. He’d been lured into the simplest of traps and now, thought Winter, he hadn’t a clue what to do.

‘With respect, son, you’re talking bollocks,’ he said at last. ‘Beginski’s shot. He’s all over the fucking place. But you know something about guys like that? They let you closer than they think. And you know something else? He’s been in the shit with the locals recently. That’s partly why they were there. You may well have put a call in. I expect you wanted to be sure I’d really turned up. But they did their own checks too because he’s already on their radar, and the fact that I turned out to be Karl Sparrow confused the fuck out of them.’ He smiled at last. ‘Am I getting warm here, Jimmy? Do you want to spare me the next bit? Just get it off your chest?’

Suttle was angry, Winter could see it in his face. Operation
Gehenna
could do him a very big favour and the last thing he needed, just now, was a masterclass in interviewing techniques.

‘We do it the way we do it,’ he mumbled. ‘You know that better than anyone.’

‘Of course I do, son. But I expect it to be done
well
. That was what pissed me off last time round. It’s not you getting hurt here, Jimmy. It’s little old me.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying you’ve fucked up. I’m guessing that Beginski’s been on your radar for some time. I don’t know when the Poles flagged him up, and I don’t know why, but that’s not the point, is it? The point, Jimmy, is you
knew
. It was never a question of getting to him through his sister. You knew already. Am I right?’

Suttle didn’t know what to say. The anger had gone. He looked weary.

‘We were giving you a cover story,’ he said at last. ‘We were trying to help. There was no way you could have access to our intel. Mackenzie wouldn’t buy that for a moment.’

‘Right. So you gave him a sister. Insisted she wouldn’t grass her brother up to the likes of you lot. Sent me along to do the biz. Very clever. Very plausible. And I’m assuming, at the same time, you’ve done some kind of immunity deal with Beginski in return for the stuff he gave me yesterday. No European Arrest Warrant as long as he grasses Skelley up. Yeah?’

‘Yeah. He’ll have to give evidence of course, but … yeah.’

‘Right. Top class. Brilliant little wheeze. Yours?’

‘Ours.’

‘Excellent. Except there’s one hole, isn’t there? Who the fuck is Irenka?’

There was a long silence. Suttle was studying his hands.

‘She’s u/c,’ he admitted at last.

‘One of your lot.’

‘One of us. She’s part of
Gehenna
.’ His head came up. ‘Just like you.’

‘Wrong, Jimmy. Because she’s on the inside, isn’t she? And you know why that makes her different? Because you or Parsons or Willard or whoever it fucking is has left me out of the loop. Again. For the second fucking time. You’ve assumed all along I’m too old or too stupid or too fucking
blind
to suss the way you set it up. And that, son, was a very big mistake.’

Suttle nodded. He’d had enough of this humiliation.

‘So where’s the camera?’ he said.

‘Is that a serious question? After what we’ve just been through?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘Then I’ll tell you. I put it in a Jiffy bag about an hour ago. First class. Touch wood, he’ll have it by tomorrow morning.’

‘Who?’ Suttle was lost.

‘Bazza, son. My boss.’

PORTSMOUTH: SATURDAY, 10 APRIL 2010

The first weekend of the election campaign found Mackenzie in conference with Leo Kinder. Bazza had descended to the War Room with a bacon sandwich. There were traces of brown sauce around his mouth and he badly needed a shave.

Kinder had news from the front line.

‘You know the UKIP candidate we’re up against? The guy who works in computers?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Guess what he’s using as his battle bus.’

Bazza was deep in the sports pages of the
News
. Tomorrow Pompey were playing Spurs in the FA Cup, a fixture all the sweeter for the involvement of Harry Redknapp, the ex-Pompey manager who’d ratted on the club by walking out for the same job at Tottenham.

‘No idea,’ he muttered. ‘Tell me.’

‘A Volkswagen camper van.’

‘You’re kidding.’ Bazza at last looked up.

‘With German number plates.’

‘Fuck.’ Bazza barked with laughter. ‘We’ll kill him. We’ll eat him alive. The guy’s banging the drum for Blighty? Giving it plenty? And he’s doing it in a Kraut-reg
Volkswagen?
Jesus …’

He told Kinder to work up a line or two for the morning press conference. Today’s
Pompey First
election theme was law and order, and Bazza was relishing the prospect of an impromptu
rally outside the city’s Central police station. Months of media exposure was beginning to draw decent crowds whenever Bazza made an appearance, and with luck today’s gathering might be spiced with a hooligan or two chucked out of the Custody Centre after a night banged up in the cells. In Bazza’s view a couple of scrotes would be the perfect garnish for the hard-hitting speech Kinder had cooked up only yesterday. How Friday-night drinkers, pissed out of their tiny skulls, were giving the city a headache it couldn’t afford. How foreign visitors pouring off the ferries hit the motorway to London rather than risk a night in Pompey. How the time had come to bring this lunatic pantomime to a halt.

‘And the BIBs?’

‘Andy’s got the roughs. They look great.’

‘When do we go to print?’

‘Monday or Tuesday. We’re putting them round the libraries and the primary schools. Fingers crossed, eh?’

The
Boys in Blue
campaign had been Makins’ idea, a jokey take on the law and order issue. He’d commissioned a gifted first-year art student at the uni to come up with a cartoon featuring the BIBs, a heroic bunch of overweight coppers forever battling the forces of darkness. Most of the time they ended up flat on their fat arses, only to be rescued by the thinly disguised Bazza Mackenzie, a caped crusader toting the colours of
Pompey First
. Bazza loved the idea, mainly because he knew the political message would drive the Filth nuts: only BazzaMac, the city’s richest criminal, could return Pompey to peace and quiet.

Kinder was watching the news feed from BBC24. The Tories had just announced a
£
150 per annum tax break for married couples, and the Lib Dems, in the shape of Nick Clegg, had been quickest on the draw. He’d married his wife, he was saying, for love not an extra three quid a week. It was a good line and drew a cackle of laughter from Mackenzie.

Kinder was also amused. ‘We need to get across this,’ he
said. ‘Gordon Brown will bang on about the tax implications and bore everyone shitless, but Clegg’s got it right. The Tories hate people laughing at them.’

‘Too right …’ Mackenzie was watching news footage of Clegg’s Spanish wife. Miriam Gonzales-Durantes, in his view, was a looker. ‘So how do we handle it?’

‘You dream up something about Marie. Something original. Something witty. Something
sincere
. We need it by the time you do the stand-up outside the nick. Yeah?’

‘No problem.’ Mackenzie checked his watch. ‘I’ve got a meet with Gill Reynolds in ten. I need to get a shave. Did I mention this diary thing of hers?’

‘You did, Baz.’

‘And?’

‘Be careful.’

‘Always, my friend.’ He got to his feet and gave Kinder a pat on the arm. ‘Later, eh?’

The door opened and Winter walked in. Neither Mackenzie nor Kinder had seen him since midweek. Not a phone call. Not a text. Not an email. Nothing.

‘Thanks for the postcard, mush.’ Mackenzie was looking at the Jiffy bag in Winter’s hand. The bag had Bazza’s name on it. ‘What’s that?’

‘Little prezzie from Poland. I found it in Reception. You got a moment?’

‘How much of a moment?’

‘Half an hour, tops. Your office would be favourite.’

Winter was already heading for the door. Mackenzie called him back.

‘No can do, mate. I’ve got a meet in five then we’re off up to Central. This afternoon’s block-booked already. Walkabout in Commercial Road, then a Q and A thing with local traders. These guys are spitting bullets about what’s not happening in the Northern Quarter. Zillions down the khazi and nothing to show for it. What a way to run a fucking city, eh?’

He gave Winter a playful tap on his ample belly and told him this evening might be a possibility. A couple of cold ones, maybe, and a chance to catch up.

Winter was about to say something else but it was too late. Bazza had gone.

‘What’s that about?’ Winter turned to Kinder. ‘Is he back on the toot or what?’

‘It’s worse.’ Kinder was shaking his head. ‘Have you met this woman Gill?’

Suttle had requested a meet with Willard and was summoned to Parsons’ office in the Major Crime Suite at Kingston Crescent police station at noon. Willard had driven across from Winchester, collecting Parsons from her house in Fareham en route. To Suttle’s relief, Willard seemed surprisingly upbeat.

‘He’s in the last three for the West Mids job,’ Parsons confided. ‘And he tells me the competition’s crap.’

Willard had disappeared up the corridor for a leak. When he returned he wanted to know about Winter.

‘We may have lost him,’ Suttle said at once. ‘That’s why I asked for the meet.’

‘
Lost
him? Last time we talked you told me he was practically back in uniform.’

‘I never said that, sir. With respect.’

‘No, you didn’t. And it won’t happen either. Not as long as I’m in charge.’

‘So what’s changed, Jimmy?’ This from Parsons.

‘He’s sussed Irenka, boss. He knows she’s u/c.’ He explained about Winter’s visit to Lublin to see Pavel Beginski. ‘He’s saying the guy’s wrecked. Totally out of it.’

‘We didn’t know that already?’

‘No, sir. When I saw him after Christmas he was still running the bar. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box but he wasn’t a
total
piss head.’

‘And now? According to Winter?’

‘He’s shot. Winter thinks booze is part of it, but maybe he’s using other stuff as well. The bar’s semi-derelict. The guy’s camping upstairs. Winter said the place was evil.’

‘So what did Beginski tell him?’

‘I’m not sure, sir, but in that kind of state he’d have no chance, not with someone like Winter. Whatever happened, Winter now knows we set Irenka up. And he thinks that’s a bit of an insult.’

‘That we conned him?’

‘That we thought he was stupid enough not to see through it.’

Willard nodded. He knew Winter. He could see the logic.

‘So what has he got? What did he bring back?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir. He said he’d posted it on down to Mackenzie. He may have been lying, but I doubt it. He knew I could have arrested him, done the searches, seized whatever I fancied.’

‘So why didn’t you? You know the terms of the agreement. Winter is working for us. He’s under our control. We task him. We send him out there. We have first sight of whatever he brings back. It’s called management. Mackenzie only gets to see it when we feel the time is right.’

‘Sure. Of course, sir. You’re right.’ Suttle shot a despairing look at Parsons.

‘I think Jimmy’s trying to tell us Winter’s beyond managing,’ she murmured. ‘And he might have a point.’

‘No one’s beyond managing. Not if you …’ He frowned.

‘Manage them properly?’ Parsons suggested.

‘Exactly. We have protocols here. Rules. One way or another, this thing has to get to court.’ He was still looking at Suttle. ‘Doesn’t Winter understand that?’

‘I’m sure he does, sir.’

‘Then why is he dicking us about?’

‘That was exactly his question. He doesn’t think we’re serious.’

‘
Serious?
’ All thought of an imminent move to the West Midlands had gone. Willard was close to losing it.

‘I think he means competent, sir. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it was a mistake to give Beginski a sister.’

‘So how else was he going to sell it to Mackenzie?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir. Except that he’d have found a way. Winter might be bent as fuck, sir, but he’s extremely resourceful.’

‘I don’t doubt it. I never doubted it. But he has to make a choice here. Whose bloody side is he on?’

‘His own, sir. Winter’s in there pitching for Winter.’

‘Like always.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Then fuck him.’ Willard glanced at his watch. ‘This is more trouble than it’s worth.’

‘You’re telling me it’s over, sir?’ Parsons looked startled. ‘
Gehenna
’s finished?’

‘I’m telling you we’re on the wrong track. Do we still need to scoop Mackenzie up? Expose him for what he really is? Of course we do. Do we try and achieve that by playing Mr Nice to the likes of Paul Winter? I think not. Winter is a rat. Winter is lowlife. The man doesn’t understand the word trust. I’m amazed we didn’t suss that from the start.’