Happy Days (39 page)

‘So what’s the trick?’

‘Skelley. We had a meet about him this morning, Baz and I.’

‘And?’

‘I’m off up to London after this.’ He was still looking at Willard. ‘You’ve seen the Beginski material?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘And?’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Just OK?’

‘It’s good.’ The admission pained Willard. ‘With the right corroboration, it should do the job.’

Winter nodded, then tallied his demands. He wanted twenty-four-hour surveillance on the hotel. He wanted another team permanently targeting Mackenzie. He had a list of Mackenzie’s various mobile numbers and of the direct line he used in his office. He was no longer up to speed on comms intercepts, but he imagined the science had moved on.

The D/I from Covert Ops said his guys would need access to the hotel. Half an hour in Mackenzie’s office, undisturbed, should be enough to put a decent rig in.

‘Impossible.’ Winter shook his head. ‘He’s got CCTV everywhere. There’s no way you wouldn’t be clocked.’

‘Then maybe we can give you a radio mike. You’d have to put it in his office. We can monitor the feed.’

Winter gave it some thought. The microphone and
transmitter would be hidden – maybe in a book or an ornament of some kind – but to get a result it had to be reasonably close to Mackenzie’s desk. Winter, knowing how territorial Bazza could be, shook his head again.

‘He’d probably spot it,’ he said. ‘That’s a risk we shouldn’t be taking.’

‘You mean
you
shouldn’t be taking.’ This from Willard.

‘Exactly.’

‘How about a fallback?’ Willard again. ‘Would you be prepared to wear a wire?’

‘No way.’ Winter shook his head.

Willard raised an eyebrow. No one else said a word. Finally it was Winter who broke the silence.

‘This woman Irenka,’ he began. ‘The u/c. Bazza wants her down to the hotel.’

Willard wanted to know why.

‘He needs to check her out.’ Winter said. ‘I already mentioned it to Jimmy.’

‘I know. We’ve discussed it.’

‘So where does she come from?’

‘The Met.’

‘And she’s good?’

‘The best.’ The Covert Ops D/I again. ‘Trust her with my life.’

‘Thanks.’ Winter wasn’t smiling. ‘Except it’s mine, old son, not yours.’

WEST LONDON: MONDAY, 3 MAY 2010

Freezee’s southern distribution depot lay on the edges of a west London trading estate beside the M4. Winter found a lay-by up the road from the main entrance and pulled in. Through the chain-link fence he could see rows of refrigerated lorries. Beyond them a couple of guys in overalls were steam-cleaning a white Transit van. Overhead, on the elevated motorway, traffic roared towards central London. It was mid-afternoon.

Mackenzie answered on the second ring. Winter bent to the phone.

‘I’m here, Baz. I’m about to go in. If I’m not out by six, call the rozzers.’

‘Have you seen the woman yet? That Irenka?’ Mackenzie ignored the joke.

‘Later, Baz. Providing I’m still in one piece.’

Winter ended the call without waiting for a reply. He drove back to the main entrance, where a security guard checked his name against a list on his clipboard. Winter had called Skelley’s secretary earlier. Mr Skelley would see him at half past three.

In reception Winter accepted a mug of lukewarm tea and browsed a copy of the
Sun
. The Lib Dems were promising shock gains in Thursday’s poll while Gordon Brown had likened Nick Clegg to a game-show host. Winter was wondering whether to risk a peek at his horoscope when Skelley’s secretary appeared. He followed her down a long corridor to an office at the end.

The office, to Winter’s surprise, was modest: a desk, a small conference table, no windows. On the plain white wall behind the empty chair hung a framed photograph. Pale grey light gleamed on a huge stretch of water, and there was a bare odd-shaped mountain in the background. Winter had never been to the Lake District but suspected that this was the view from Skelley’s house. He stared at the water. Johnny Holman must be down there somewhere, he thought.

The secretary had gone. Winter waited. At length the door opened again and he turned to find himself looking at a proffered handshake.

‘Martin Skelley.’ The voice was soft, Scouse accent.

‘Paul Winter.’

‘You want another tea?’

‘No, thanks.’

Skelley settled behind the desk. He was a big man, well built, and one look at his face told Winter that there must be West Indian blood in his family: the skin colour, the tiny button ears, the tight whorls of greying hair, the blackness in his eyes. He studied Winter for a long moment.

‘I understand you’ve got something for me?’

‘I have.’

‘So why should I be interested?’

‘Because it ties you to a murder.’

He nodded and said nothing. A new-looking PC occupied one end of Skelley’s desk. Winter gave him the DVD. Skelley slipped it into the slot and reached for his mouse. Moments later Winter heard Beginski’s trademark cough.

The interview lasted twenty-two minutes. At the end of it Skelley returned his attention to Winter.

‘You’ve got copies of this?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘Are you Filth?’

‘No.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘A million quid.’

For the first time Winter sparked a reaction, but there was no warmth in the smile.

‘This is a joke, isn’t it?’ Skelley said. ‘Some chiselling fucker on the take?’

‘His name’s Mackenzie,’ Winter said. ‘And he’s my boss.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘He had a stash of toot buried on the Isle of Wight. A guy called Johnny Holman was the babysitter. We think Holman ended up in the back of Beginski’s van. And we think you took care of him after that.’

‘You can prove any of this shit?’

‘No, but I know people who can.’

‘That’s a threat, I take it?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘So why the million quid?’

‘Because it wasn’t just Johnny who disappeared. My boss lost his bugle too, all of it. He thinks you had it off Lou Sadler. And he thinks a million quid is a reasonable settlement.’

‘Then he’s crazy.’

‘Fine. You’re telling me you never had the toot?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘Sure.’ Winter nodded at the PC. ‘In which case we’re talking straight extortion.’

The smile again. This time Skelley seemed genuinely amused.

‘You
are
a cop,’ he said. ‘It’s fucking obvious.’

‘Was once.’

‘Yeah?’ He was frowning now. ‘Does Lou know you?’

‘She does.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘There’s no difference. Not with Lou.’

‘You’re right.’ The laughter died on his lips. He wanted to know where he could find Mackenzie.

‘Down in Southsea. The Royal Trafalgar Hotel. He’s
expecting a call.’ Winter flipped a card onto the desk and stood up. ‘Cheers for the tea, eh?’

Isleworth was a ten-minute drive from the Freezee depot. Winter climbed the stairs at the back of the agency, knocked twice and stepped inside. Next door he could hear voices raised in anger. One of them was Irenka’s. They weren’t speaking English. Another satisfied customer, Winter thought.

He waited in the outer office until the door opened. A small thickset guy in his early thirties pushed past Winter without a backward glance and wrenched the door open. Winter heard the clatter of his feet on the concrete steps. He shut the door and went into the office. Irenka was looking at some kind of bill. She shook her head.

‘The man’s in there a week, gets trashed on vodka every night, winds up the stereo, upsets the neighbours, buys himself an electric fire, then expects me to pick up the tab. Fucking Poles, who needs them?’

‘Mackenzie wants you down at the hotel.’ Winter hadn’t got time to waste.

‘Does he? When?’

‘As soon as.’

Irenka abandoned the bill and consulted her diary.

‘I can’t do tonight. Tomorrow I’m in Scotland. It’ll have to be Wednesday.’ She looked up. ‘What does he want?’

‘Number one, he wants to check you out. Number two, he thinks 250K is a joke.’

‘For Pavel, you mean?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He’s right. What was he like, this Pavel?’

‘Shot. Wasted. I never realised why so many Poles came over here until I met him. I think Lublin must have got to him. There are nicer places in the world, believe me.’

Winter told her everything he could remember about
Beginski: the way he’d looked, the conditions he was living in, how life seemed to have shrunk him to nothing.

‘I gather you’re the sister.’

‘That’s the legend, yes.’

‘So how well are you supposed to know our Pavel?’

‘We didn’t meet until he came over here. I helped him find a place, waived the commission, did the family thing. We don’t get on, not really.’

‘I’m not surprised. You should see the state of him.’ Winter paused. ‘Mackenzie’s a bloke you shouldn’t underestimate. He can come across as a bit of a hooligan sometimes, but it’s a game he plays. Don’t be fooled. He’s sharp as a tack, doesn’t miss a trick. What you see isn’t always what you get.’

‘Yeah?’ She frowned. ‘Tell me something …’

‘Go on.’

‘Why is he standing for Parliament?’

‘Good question. Some days I think he means it. Others he seems to be taking the piss. Just now the wheels have come off. Getting elected is harder than he’d ever thought.’

‘You know him well?’

‘Probably as well as anyone.’

‘You like him?’

‘I used to.’

‘So what’s changed?’ She nodded at the paperwork that littered her desk. ‘What’s led to all this?’

‘It’s complicated. Some bits you don’t want to know. Other bits I’m not going to tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because …’ Winter tried to find the words. ‘I dunno …’

‘Try.’

‘I can’t. I don’t want to.’

‘Why not?’

Winter gazed at her for a long moment. It was rare to find someone this blunt yet this persuasive.

‘Honestly?’

‘Honestly.’

‘Because it doesn’t make me feel so great about myself.’

Irenka nodded. ‘You mean you feel ashamed? You regret binning the Job?’

‘No, it’s not that. The Job had become impossible.’

‘So what is it?’

‘It’s hard. I don’t know. Disgust? Fuck knows. Mackenzie can be an animal, a total arsehole, but then we all can.’

‘So there’s more?’

‘Of course there’s more.’

‘And?’

‘The man’s starting to frighten me.’

‘It’s fear. You’re talking about fear.’

‘Yes.’

It was the truth. Winter gazed at her, admiring the way she’d managed to dig it out of him. It would have been nice to get some response, but her gaze had returned to her diary.

‘I’ve got an aunt in Southampton.’ She reached for the bill for the electric fire and threw it in the bin. ‘She’s due a visit. How about Wednesday evening?’

‘I’ll ask him.’

‘And Skelley? He’s seen the interview?’

‘He has. There’s another scary man.’ Winter flashed her a smile that wasn’t quite convincing. ‘Fingers crossed, eh?’

Winter was back in the Trafalgar by early evening. On the first Monday of every month the hotel always hosted a supper for the local Rotary Club, a gathering of local worthies. They booked one of the function rooms and normally gathered in the bar before wandering through with their drinks. This evening attendance was thin. Winter asked the receptionist why.

‘Dunno.’ She shrugged. ‘Loads of them have phoned up and cancelled. I’m not sure they like all this political stuff. Mr M isn’t best pleased.’

‘I bet.’

Winter stepped into the bar. Over the last week or so, as word spread that Bazza was in trouble, familiar faces had begun to appear. These were names Winter had known since way back, old mates of Mackenzie, rallying to the flag. Many of them were ex-6.57, fellow infantrymen from Pompey’s army of travelling away fans. In the 1980s and 90s they’d exported recreational violence to the furthest corners of the kingdom, returning late on Saturday nights to feast on the day’s mayhem and get even more pissed. A decade or so later, still tattooed, still shaven-haired, many of them had made decent careers in the motor trade or the property game. The T-shirts were tighter over the belly and the jeans a little baggier round the arse, but the light in their eyes told Winter they still had it. In a city as tribal and closely knit as Pompey, this was muscle Bazza could rely on.

Gill Reynolds was sitting at a table in the corner. She was by herself. Winter knew this was the hour Bazza normally reserved for their tête-à-têtes, a diary catch-up on the day’s campaigning and a preview of what tomorrow might hold.

‘Buy you a drink?’

She asked for a spritzer. Winter went to the bar. A couple of the guys on stools gave him the nod. One of them had gone into the music business and supplied bands city-wide. The other drove a taxi. In another life Winter had nicked them both on a variety of minor drugs offences.

He carried the drinks back to the table. Gill looked up at him.

‘How’s the man?’ Winter asked.

‘Knackered. Knackered and depressed. Apparently he did three venues today. He got single-figure audiences in two of them, and when he made it to the third no one could get in.’

‘Where was it?’

‘Wymering. The caretaker had been taken to hospital. No one else had a key.’

‘Shit.’

‘Exactly.’ She stared at her drink. ‘This is turning into a nightmare, isn’t it?’

‘The campaign, you mean?’

‘Of course.’ Her head came up. ‘What else is there?’

Winter held her gaze. It was a direct question. She was a journalist. She’d sniffed the wind. She kept her eyes open. She had a gift for putting bits of the jigsaw together. She might even have arrived at a conclusion or two.

‘There’s nothing, love,’ Winter said. ‘Only the campaign.’

‘I don’t believe you. He’s in deep shit, isn’t he?’

‘Of course he is. A couple of hundred votes come Thursday? Lost deposit? All those suits in his face? That’s not what our man had in mind.’

‘I’m not talking about the campaign.’