Happy Days (36 page)

‘But this guy didn’t do it?’ Mackenzie nodded at the gaunt grey face on the screen.

‘Definitely not. Helping dispose of the body puts him on the line for a conspiracy charge but nothing more.’

‘And Skelley? Remind me?’

‘Same charge. I’m pretty certain he also took the toot off Lou Sadler. Which is where we come in.’

Mackenzie watched the rest of the interview without comment. At the end he hit the stop button. He thought it was good. In fact he thought it was brilliant. He could picture exactly how a guy like Skelley would react, thinking he’d got it all weighed off but realising now that he had a big fucking problem on his hands. In Bazza’s view, it was a problem that a great deal of money could easily solve, but for the time being he wanted to know exactly how Winter had got to Beginski.

‘Through his sister. I thought I told you.’

‘Tell me again, mush. Spell it out. Pretend I’m thick.’

Winter described tracing Beginski’s mates at Freezee a couple of months ago.

‘How did you do that?’

‘I hung around outside the depot, clocked their private cars, checked out where they drank, had a few conversations.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘And these guys were Poles?’

‘Some of them.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘They said that Beginski was an odd guy, sociable sometimes, a bit of a recluse others. Liked a drink. Bit of a loner. They also said he had a sister who ran an agency, a place in Isleworth just down the road. She sorts out accommodation for blokes in from Poland. Some of them had used her.’

‘So you got the address?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Paid her a visit?’

‘Yeah. It turned out she knew where her brother had ended up. Not only that but he’d run out of money. As we now know.’

‘So you made the offer?’

‘I did, Baz.’

‘Twenty-five per cent.’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Two hundred and fifty K.’

‘Yeah.’

‘For that.’ He nodded at the screen.

‘That’s the deal, yes.’

Mackenzie stretched, then sat back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.

‘Get her down, mush,’ he said at last.

‘Why?’

‘A quarter of a mil is way over the top. We’ve got what we want. We need to renegotiate.’

Winter started to protest but knew it was hopeless. In these
moods Mackenzie was immune to reason. To his way of thinking, they now had Skelley exactly where they wanted him. How much they paid some derelict in Lublin was neither here nor there.

‘Then just forget him, Baz. Pay nothing.’

‘Why’s that, mush?’ Mackenzie was watching him closely. ‘Don’t you want her down here?’

‘Personally, Baz, I couldn’t care whether you paid him or not. It just makes life simpler, that’s all. Plus we need every penny we can get.’

‘Sure. But give her a bell, eh? No great rush.’

He turned away, a gesture of dismissal, and reached for the phone. A mate was standing the two grand for a chopper to Wembley tomorrow, and Bazza was asking about his favourite champagne. By the time Winter got to the door, he’d managed to blag an extra seat for a friend.

‘Woman called Gill,’ he said. ‘You’ll fucking love her.’

Half an hour later, parked up on the seafront, Winter gazed into the gathering darkness. If he needed any confirmation that his days with Bazza Mackenzie were numbered, then here it was. Forget the moment he watched Bazza’s hit man execute a lieutenant who’d stepped out of line. Put aside the guy’s girlfriend, totally innocent, blown away seconds later. Resist the memory, all too recent, of a bunch of psychos who’d nearly burned him alive in a hotel room in Montenegro. All that stuff, deeply alarming though it was, came with the territory. Mackenzie was a criminal, a gangster, a man of violence. That’s what happened. That’s the language these guys spoke when everything else turned to rat shit. That’s what the likes of Paul Winter had to expect for a decent wage and a nice car and – on a good day – a laugh or two.

But this? Marie in pieces? Abandoned? Fucked over? Betrayed? Today in the pages of the city’s daily paper? And tomorrow, quite possibly, on trillions of TV sets? A camera
lingering briefly on one of the stadium’s executive boxes? Mr Pompey and his new girlie enjoying their moment in the Wembley sun?

Winter shook his head. He knew the time for excuses was over. There was no longer any point blaming Mackenzie’s excesses on the pressure of work, or the state of his finances, or the insane demands of a political campaign that was, at bottom, no more than a stunt. No, the guy was in control of his own fate. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was in sole charge of the journey every step of the way. Winter was certain that journey would shortly end in disaster and his responsibility now was to limit the fallout. There were individuals here who deserved a little advance warning, just a shred of protection, and under the circumstances that task was down to him.

A couple of months ago, at the birth of Operation
Gehenna
, it had all seemed so simple. A clever scam would snare Mackenzie in a trap of his own making. The likes of Parsons and Jimmy Suttle would march him to court, a jury would deliver the inevitable verdict, the Proceeds of Crime Act would strip him of everything the bailiffs could seize, and Mackenzie would be contemplating the onset of old age in a prison cell. But life rarely worked out that way – so neat, so perfectly managed – and
Gehenna
had suddenly found itself fogged in. Nothing was clear any more. Trust had broken down. And only one guy, it seemed to Winter, was left with any clear sense of direction.

He smiled to himself, recognising only too well that he was back where he’d always been, teasing advantage out of the surrounding chaos, staying one move ahead, trying to broker a result that would spare him either humiliation or penury, or – if events got totally out of control – an ugly death. The coming days wouldn’t be easy, but then he’d be crazy to expect anything different. At moments like this, he told himself, he knew exactly what he was best at.

Surviving.

Bazza Mackenzie didn’t eat until nearly ten. The hotel restaurant was beginning to empty. His favourite table by the window had been reserved all evening in expectation of his arrival. He summoned Leo Kinder and Makins, and ordered a couple of bottles of Krug to kick things off. Makins did a double take when he saw Gill Reynolds at his boss’s side but did his best to ignore Bazza’s extravagant displays of affection. His months with Mackenzie had taught him a great deal about the importance of territory. You could look, and you could remember, but you very definitely didn’t stray onto your boss’s turf.

Mackenzie wanted to review the week’s campaigning. The way he saw it,
Pompey First
had roared off the starting grid and left the opposition for dead. They’d torn up the electoral rule book and pulled stroke after stroke. They were getting oodles of media attention and putting themselves bang in the face of the whole fucking city. Everyone knew about the Smouts, and the brain-dead piss heads at the weekend, and how Bazza cherished the National Health Service and the Sure Start Centres, and what a hefty injection of Chinese capital could do for the city’s defence industries, and why the Hilsea Lido deserved a bit of TLC, and how the Tide Turn Trust was turning the wilder kids back into human beings.

All this stuff, Bazza pointed out, had happened in less than a week. The north of the city was plastered with
Pompey First
posters, and YouTube had become the destination of choice for punters looking for something different in the way of political broadcasting. Only this morning Bazza had fielded a couple of emails from
Smoutland
fans in Scotland. When the mini-vids had first aired, everyone had said they were pointless and mad. Now they’d become cult viewing. And that, said Bazza, was exactly what
Pompey First
was about. We’re here to give the other lot a kicking. We’re here to give the system a shake. Take a long hard look at the Big Society, and what you got – if you were lucky – was
Pompey First
.

Mackenzie raised his glass, first to Andy Makins, then to Leo Kinder.

‘You’ve done brilliant, guys. And you know what? It can only get better.’

Kinder agreed. He’d mapped out the campaign schedule for the coming week. Tomorrow’s semi-final at Wembley would bring the club – and hence the city – a great deal of publicity, so they needed to hit the ground running. Right, Baz?

Mackenzie offered a vigorous nod. He wanted lots of good strong positive stuff about Fratton Park’s long-term future. Just now the club’s finances were a car crash and there were all kinds of issues about ownership, but he knew Pompey would pull through the way it always had, and once all the aggro and madness had settled down he could see nothing but success. A brand-new stadium out at Horsea Island. Big-name signings on the back of the club’s huge core support. Regular top-five finishes in the Prem. Plus unforgettable nights of Euro-football, with Pompey caning the arse off the likes of Barcelona and AC Milan. Mackenzie reached for his glass, enjoying the prospect of this glorious fantasy. His club. His city.

Kinder took up the running again, outlining the week’s other themes. The way investment always seemed to drain to the south of the island. The way Southsea and Gunwharf hogged the lion’s share of National Lottery money. The way
Pompey First
planned to restore a bit of city-wide fairness in the scramble for funds. Bazza signalled his approval as Kinder planted a tick in each of these boxes, utterly certain that the electoral tide was running in his favour, and when conversation turned to the imminent Future-Proofing Conference, he let his mind wander, gazing out of the window.

This was one of his favourite views. Beyond the sweep of Southsea Common and the frieze of coloured lights on the seafront lay the busy darkness of the Solent. At this time of night there was still plenty of traffic out on the water – a FastCat heading for Ryde, huge container ships inbound for
Southampton – and Mackenzie reached for Gill’s hand, giving it a little squeeze, proud of the niche he was carving for himself in Pompey’s rich history.

Informally, among people in the know, he’d been prince of the city for years now, the Copnor boy with the bollocks and the brain to turn oodles of toot into serious moolah, and with luck the next three weeks would become a kind of coronation. Bazza had never been to an election night count in his life, but now he was relishing the prospect: getting in the faces of all the Establishment suits, scoring some kind of result and acknowledging the cheers in the Guildhall Square afterwards. This was the Copnor boy made good. This was how far you could get as long as you never lost your bottle. He was having a think about the speech he’d be making on election night when Gill touched him on the arm.

‘Those two were outside the nick at lunchtime.’ She was looking at a couple of youths standing in the hotel forecourt, staring up at the restaurant. She’d seen the same faces on the midday news.

Mackenzie followed her pointing finger. She was right. One was a skinny little scrote, baseball cap, dead eyes, hoodie, brand new Nikes. The other one was bigger, taller, broader. He was wearing a Pompey shirt over Lacoste trackie bottoms. He had something in his right hand. He drew his arm back and took careful aim at the faces in the window.

Moments later the half-brick shattered the glass beside the table. Gill screamed, covering her face as the next missile showered them with more glass. Mackenzie was already on his feet, already heading for the door, towing Makins behind him.

Kinder pulled Gill to safety as a third object, a rock this time, sailed in through the open window and scattered a party of late diners on the other side of the restaurant.

On the steps of the hotel Mackenzie paused. The kids were crossing the road, heading for the Common, cool as you like. The skinny one turned to give him the finger, and Mackenzie
caught a derisive yelp as they launched into one of the chants from the Fratton End.

Mackenzie shot Makins a look and set off in pursuit. Makins, with some reluctance, followed. The kids had broken into a trot now, still in no hurry. As far as Mackenzie could judge, they were heading for the seafront. Mackenzie ran a little faster, closing the gap, thankful he’d only had the single glass of Krug. Fuck sweet reason, he thought to himself. Fuck the army of sociologists who’d rocked up for the Tide Turn Trust conference. Fuck all the speeches about social deprivation and the miracles of restorative justice. These inbreds needed a slap or two. And he was only too happy to oblige.

By the time they got to the seafront, Mackenzie was knackered. He paused on the promenade, catching his breath, waiting for Makins. The kids had slowed and were walking backwards towards the pier, still screaming abuse.

Makins wanted to know what was supposed to happen next.

‘We fucking do them.’

‘How?’

‘
How?
’ Mackenzie had set off again. What a question.

Southsea Pier was a quarter of a mile away, a long dark finger silhouetted against the lights of the seafront. The tide was out and the kids jumped onto the beach, heading for the gleaming stretch of wet sand down by the water. Mackenzie could hear the tramp of their feet on the pebbles. They’d started on the songs again. ‘I’m Pompey Till I Die.’ Too fucking right, he thought.

By now, still on the promenade, Mackenzie and Makins were abreast of the kids. A final effort would do it. Mackenzie led Makins onto the pebbles. The kids began to run again. The blackness beneath the pier loomed before them. Then they were gone.

Mackenzie plunged after them. Under the pier it was suddenly cold. He could feel the clammy breath of the pebbles. He stopped, wiping the sweat from his face, letting his eyes get
used to the darkness. The curl of the breaking waves echoed around the rusting iron pillars. From somewhere overhead came a slow
drip-drip
from a leaking pipe.

‘Sweet or what?’

He spun round. A line of bodies barred the way back to the beach. There were more faces to his left, maybe a dozen of the little bastards, maybe more. He’d been set up. He’d been ambushed. These tossers had taken his rant outside the nick a little too literally and now they wanted payback. Sweet indeed.