Happy Days (43 page)

‘So what have we got?’

Skelley reached inside his jacket pocket and for a split second Winter wondered exactly what he had in mind. Then he produced a white envelope and put it carefully on the desk.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s yours.’

‘But what is it?’

‘Open it.’ Skelley looked briefly amused. ‘Then you’ll find out, won’t you?’

Mackenzie opened the envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of paper. He looked at it, uncomprehending, then passed it to Winter. It was a printout of some kind, presumably off the Internet. It was in Polish.

‘What’s the
Lubelski Kurier
?’

‘The Lublin local paper. The bit you need is at the bottom on the left.’ Skelley leaned across and pointed out a paragraph ringed in blue biro.

Winter was no wiser. Then he recognised the name. Pavel Beginski.

‘So what does it say?’

‘It says a friend found his body yesterday morning.’

‘He’s dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘How? Why?’

‘Pass.’ He shrugged, a gesture of infinite regret. ‘Apparently the bloke wasn’t too well. Drink? Drugs? Fuck knows. You have to take care of yourself these days. Otherwise anything can happen. George?’

Skelley’s minder had another envelope. He gave it to Mackenzie. Bazza ignored him. His hand had found the remote.

‘That’s me, guys.’ He nodded at the screen and turned up the volume.

Skelley seemed genuinely interested. The report lasted four minutes, ending with the boom of the cannon. Afterwards came reactions from other candidates. Their message was broadly the same. A vote for
Pompey First
was a vote wasted. Only the major parties could make any real difference.

Bazza turned the sound down again. He wanted to make it clear that this wasn’t the end of the story. He still had the interview. Skelley could save himself a lot of aggravation by squaring up for the toot.

‘Maybe not a million,’ he conceded. ‘Let’s call it 750K.’

Winter did his best to hide a smile. Pavel Beginski was in no state to be claiming his commission.

‘Well?’ Mackenzie was still looking at Skelley.

Skelley, as impassive as ever, got to his feet. He had to be back in town by half nine. He had a business to run, contracts to tie up ahead of the election result. By the weekend a new government might change everything. He’d enjoyed his trip to the seaside, but in the real world there were more serious conversations to be had than this.

By the door he paused, then nodded at the TV.

‘You were good,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s time for a change of career.’

Skelley and his minder left. Mackenzie gazed at the door for a moment, then reached for the envelope. Inside, as Winter had already guessed, was the DVD. Mackenzie picked it up and flipped it into the bin.

‘What now then? You want me to go to war? Ambush the guy up the road? Rip his throat out?’

‘No, Baz.’

‘Good. Then maybe you can tell me what else I can do.’

‘I dunno, Baz.’

‘You dunno, Baz. Great. You know what Marie said to me last night? She said you were the best thing that had happened to us for years.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘You fucking ought to be. And I tell you something else. It’s just as well she said “us”.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you with me?’

HAYLING ISLAND: WEDNESDAY, 5 MAY 2010

Suttle called on the pay-as-you-go early in the morning. It was barely light. Winter eased himself out of bed and took the call in the bathroom. With the door closed and a tap on there was no way Misty could eavesdrop on the conversation.

Suttle wanted to know what was going on.

‘Beginski’s dead.’

‘
What?
’

‘The Poles haven’t told you?’

‘The Poles tell us fuck all.’

‘Give them a bell. It’s in the Lublin local paper. Those guys ought to get out more.’

There was a long silence. Then Suttle was back on the line.

‘You’re telling me we have to pull the operation? Bin it?’

‘No way.’

‘What the fuck do we do then?’

‘You do what you always did, son. You leave it to me.’ Winter was studying himself in the mirror. He looked terrible. ‘Mackenzie’s a flight risk, by the way. So keep the surveillance on.’

‘Flight risk?’

‘Northern Cyprus.’ He started laughing. ‘How come fucking journalists always get there first?’

Suttle had the full story by mid-morning. Parsons called him into her office in Major Crime. She had Willard on a secure link from headquarters in Winchester. As far as Suttle could judge, he was developing a heavy cold.

‘Winter’s right, sir,’ Suttle said. ‘I talked to the Poles this morning. A neighbour discovered Beginski’s body on Monday morning. The police found a forced entry at the back of the property.’

‘What sort of state was he in?’

‘Nothing obvious, sir. No signs of violence. They did the PM on Monday afternoon. At the moment they seem to be thinking suffocation.’

‘Definitely homicide?’

‘Yes.’

Willard wanted to know about Winter. What was his take on this latest development?

‘He’s saying it makes no difference. He still thinks it’s doable.’

‘What is?’

‘
Gehenna
, sir. He wants us to keep the obs on. He says it’s just a matter of time.’

‘So Skelley’s still in play? Is that what he’s saying?’

‘That’s not clear, sir.’

‘Why not?’

‘He won’t tell me.’

There was a long silence. Suttle exchanged looks with Parsons. Twenty-four-hour surveillance was costing Willard a fortune. With Beginski dead and the DVD interview potentially tainted by Winter’s role in proceedings,
Gehenna
’s prospects were suddenly far from rosy.

‘So Mackenzie might not be going after Skelley? Is that what we’re saying?’

‘It’s possible, sir. And he thinks Mackenzie’s a flight risk.’

‘Because?’

‘Because he might have sussed what we’re up to. At the
moment we’ve got nothing on him. He’s a free agent. We can’t do him for
Pompey First
. He can go wherever he likes, whenever he likes.’

‘Then it’s over, isn’t it? We’re blown? We’re fucked?’

‘That’s not what Winter’s saying.’

‘But why? On what grounds?’ Willard was fast losing patience.

‘I think Jimmy’s saying we haven’t got an option, sir.’ This from Parsons. ‘If we want any kind of result we have to hang in there. The only guy at the coalface is Winter. Either we trust him or we don’t.’

‘Quite. Extremely well put. So what do you think?’

Parsons nodded at Suttle. He was grateful for her intervention.

‘I think we give it forty-eight hours, sir. To be fair, Winter’s always talked about election day. That’s tomorrow.’

‘Wonderful.’ Willard sneezed. ‘So what will he be giving us?’

‘Mackenzie, sir.’

‘And you believe that?’

‘Yes.’ Suttle nodded. ‘I do.’

Pompey First
, after overnight raves for Bazza’s performance at Fort Nelson, was cranking up for a final day of flat-out campaigning. To Kinder’s delight his candidate appeared to have shaken his feathers and decided to fight to the last. Victory might be beyond them, but the voice of the real Pompey wasn’t going to let the city down. They’d end the way they began. On a high.

At Mackenzie’s suggestion, Kinder organised a series of impromptu rallies. The first, hastily announced on the Internet, took place at the entrance to Fratton Park. Bemused players returning from the morning’s session at the training ground found themselves picking their way past a sizeable crowd of
Pompey First
supporters while Bazza name-checked the first-team squad one after the other.

These, he said, were the guys who’d be returning to Wembley in a couple of weeks’ time to set about Chelsea. Against all odds, in the teeth of financial meltdown, they’d kept their bottle and played their football and done the city proud. The price of a single Chelsea player, said Bazza, could buy the entire club. That was the Pompey spirit. That was the city’s story down through the ages. Make and mend. Get stuck in. Take the battle to the enemy. The last player to appear was David James. He acknowledged the cheers and paused for a word or two. Good luck tomorrow, guys. Break a leg, eh?

Bazza was delighted. The crowd was swelling by the minute. He wanted to tow them across the city to Southsea Castle, turning an impromptu rally into an impromptu march. Many of these people appeared to have time on their hands, and when Bazza put the proposition to the vote there was a roar of approval. Better to be out in the spring sunshine with a bunch of like-minded mates than stuck at home in front of crap TV.

Bazza had found a beer crate to stand on. Of the scrote vote there was no sign.

‘Pompey, Pompey, Pompey …?’ He cupped his ear.

‘First, first, first,’ came the bellowed reply.

Winter spent the morning at home in Hayling Island. He’d never been much good at DIY but he raided Misty’s modest supply of tools and began to install the handholds and other aids that Trude would need on her return from the Spinal Unit. Misty had been to B&Q only yesterday, taking a list drawn up by the occupational therapist, and by lunchtime Winter had nearly finished.

Misty was still packing boxes, trying to sieve a lifetime’s possessions ahead of the move abroad. Winter, pleased with his morning’s work, showed her what he’d done in the bathroom and then took her into Trude’s bedroom.

Misty stood beside the bed. Winter had raised it on wooden blocks and swapped the old mattress for something thicker
and more resilient. He’d screwed handholds at key locations around the room and installed a bedside bell push Trude could use if she needed to summon help.

Misty looked round. He could certainly have used a spirit level for the handholds and one of the wooden blocks seemed to have given the bed a tilt to the left, but she knew Winter was under pressure and was warmed by the fact that he cared enough to make this kind of effort.

‘I’m still a bit fuzzy about the timetable, pet,’ she said. ‘Trude comes back tomorrow, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And then we’re here for a while?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How long?’

‘Dunno, Mist.’ Winter bent to retrieve a Rawlplug. ‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Stuff,’ he said vaguely. ‘A couple of weeks? Maybe a bit longer?’ He checked his watch and reached for his jacket. ‘Gotta run, Mist. Gotta get back to the ranch.’

Winter drove the half-mile to the beach. He parked the Lexus and stepped onto the drift of sand and pebbles that fringed the road. The tide was out, and he made his way across the dunes. It was a glorious day, not a cloud in the sky, and he watched a lone jogger down by the waterline, a black silhouette against the dazzling brightness of the morning sun. Away to the right, beyond the entrance to Langstone Harbour, he could see the distant curl of the Pompey shoreline, and he paused, thinking suddenly of Joe Faraday. Life, unless you were careful, could spring all kinds of surprises. Faraday had been one such victim, kippered by events that had spiralled out of control. How would he feel now, in Winter’s shoes? What would he do? What
could
he do?

He walked west, towards Langstone, reviewing the decisions he’d taken, the risks he’d run, the consequences he’d ignored.
Winter had never been one for introspection. Unlike Faraday, whom he’d once accused of thinking too hard about more or less everything, Winter had always been happy to surf whatever waves turned up. In general this MO had served him well. It kept him on his toes. He’d seldom if ever been bored. But his carefree buccaneer passage between life’s dodgier reefs had, in the end, landed him in deep, deep shit. He had no illusions about Bazza Mackenzie. He’d always recognised how dangerous and unpredictable the man could be. And just now he knew that one mistake on his part, one tiny miscalculation, could spell disaster.

He paused to watch a bunch of kitesurfers out among the breakers curling over the sandbar, brilliant brushstrokes on a canvas of the deepest blue. A guy with a scarlet kite launched himself from one of the bigger waves, judging the somersault perfectly, touching down in time to catch the face of the wave behind. His whoop, carried by the wind, brought a smile to Winter’s face.

He checked his watch and fumbled for his pay-as-you-go. Jimmy Suttle was at his desk in Major Crime. He told Winter to hang on while he shut the door.

‘Paul? You still there?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Beautiful day.’

‘
What?
’

‘I said beautiful day.’

‘I’m sure, mate. Are we on the same page here?’

‘Always, son.’

‘Thank fuck for that. So what do I tell my bosses? Only they’re just a tad anxious.’

‘Tell them I’m grateful.’

‘I’m not sure it’s you they’re worrying about.’

‘Oh?’ The kitesurfer had just performed another miracle. ‘So what’s the problem?’

Suttle told him to stop fucking about.
Gehenna
was eating money by the hour and no one seemed to have a clue where it might head next.

‘And does that include you, son?’

‘To be frank, yes. So just tell me where we are.’

‘We are where we always were.’

‘Stop talking in fucking riddles.’

‘I mean it. Mackenzie’s on the point of doing something very silly.’

‘To Skelley?’

‘No, son. To me. Just keep the obs on, yeah?’

He ended the call. The kitesurfer, on his third jump, had blown it.

The
Pompey First
campaign came to an end on the quayside opposite HMS
Victory
. The crowd had thinned a little, some of the older men peeling off to share a late-afternoon pint or two in one of the pubs en route. Bazza, on the promise of good behaviour plus a hefty whack of public money for heritage projects after a
Pompey First
triumph in tomorrow’s polls, negotiated half an hour’s access to the Historic Dockyard and led his swelling army towards the towering masts and yardarms of Nelson’s flagship.

This, as every child in the city knew, was the spirit that badged Pompey. This was the flagship that had broken the French and Spanish lines one stormy October day off the coast near Cadiz. These were the guns that had sent broadside after crashing broadside into Pierre de Villeneuve’s fleet, splintering enemy decks, spilling enemy blood, breaking enemy spirits. The price, of course, had been high. Bazza found a bollard to stand on, gathering the crowd around him. He talked of generations of sacrifice – not just Nelson, but the thousands of other men and women who’d fallen in foreign wars, unknown, barely mentioned – and at the end he suggested a minute’s silence before calling for three rousing cheers. One for Nelson.
One for the Wembley final. And the last for
Pompey First
.