Happy Days (46 page)

By half past two in the morning Mackenzie had seen enough. He slipped through the press of media by the door, no longer interested in anyone’s microphone. Winter found him sitting
on the flank of the Guildhall steps, his elbows on his knees, gazing sightlessly up at the BBC live feed on the huge outdoor screen.

The news arrived at the
Gehenna
Command Post via the Covert Ops D/I. He signalled to Willard, who was sitting at the end of the long conference table.

‘Winter’s with Mackenzie, sir. They seem to be talking.’

‘Where?’

‘Outside. In the square.’

Willard nodded. Like everyone else in the room, with the single exception of Suttle, he’d written off
Gehenna
’s chances of any kind of result. It was good news that Pompey North was going to be spared a
Pompey First
MP, but it was equally obvious that Mackenzie had no interest in making life easy for the men in blue.

‘Winter’s got it wrong again,’ he grunted. ‘Surprise, surprise.’

It was chilly on the steps. Mackenzie had donned a suit for the count, a sober two-piece that Marie had found in a Debenhams sale, and Winter was amazed he didn’t feel the cold. Live election coverage had switched to Luton South on the big screen, and they were both watching Esther Rantzen trailing in a poor fourth.

‘I know how she feels, mush. What’s wrong with this fucking country?’

Winter said nothing. He’d never much liked Esther Rantzen. Coverage switched to Jacqui Smith, another loser. Winter asked what Bazza was up to next.

‘I stick around, mush. They’re estimating six or seven in the morning for the declaration. Joy, eh?’

‘That’s not what I meant, Baz.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

Mackenzie shrugged and turned away. It was times like
these, he said, when he regretted giving up smoking. One of those little cigarillos would be nice. And maybe something serious to drink.

‘Northern Cyprus, is it? La-la land?’

Mackenzie shot him a look. Winter was taking the piss. Had to be.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Since you’re asking.’

‘So what do you do for money? Only a quid doesn’t go far these days. Not even in Northern Cyprus.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I mean it.’

‘You really think I’m that skint? Down to rock bottom?’

‘I know you are.’

‘Then you’re fucking wrong, mush. Since when did I leave myself
that
wide open?’

‘So where’s it coming from?’

‘Cesar’s standing the flight. Southampton. Charter jet. Just like the old days.’

‘And?’

‘Nikki does the rest.’

‘Nikki?’

‘Kokh, your old mate.’

‘You took the offer?’

‘I did, mush. A hundred grand in euros, sitting in a bank in Famagusta, just waiting for me and Ma. Plus another two hundred down the line if he ponies up. Sweet, eh?’

‘Yeah. Shame it couldn’t have been the three of you.’

‘Three of us?’

‘The baby, Baz. The one who never made it.’ He smiled. ‘The one you were going to call Paulie.’

Mackenzie was staring at him. His eyes were the deepest black.

‘You know about that?’

‘Of course I know about that.’ Winter’s smile widened. ‘So what makes you think the baby was yours?’

For a moment Mackenzie didn’t move. Then he was on his feet, taking the steps two at a time, racing back towards the entrance to the Guildhall. Winter watched him disappear into the swirl of bodies beside the door. Then he settled down to wait.

‘Something’s up, sir.’ The Covert Ops D/I was on his feet.

Willard was asleep. Gail Parsons bustled past Jimmy Suttle and gave him a nudge. Suttle glanced at his watch. 02.47.

The Covert Ops D/I had crossed the room to the big street map of Pompey. Mackenzie’s Bentley, he said, had appeared from nowhere and was parked on the corner of Guildhall Walk.

‘And Winter?’ Willard was rubbing his eyes.

The Covert Ops D/I bent to his radio. He nodded a couple of times, then looked up.

‘Still sitting on the steps, sir. But something’s definitely kicking off.’

Winter knew it too. Mackenzie had reappeared at the top of the Guildhall steps flanked by three 6.57. Silhouetted against the blaze of light from the open Guildhall door, they made Winter deeply uncomfortable. He had no idea what might happen next but knew he’d finally put a match to the firework that was Bazza Mackenzie.

He came down the steps towards Winter.

‘On your feet, mush.’

Winter began to struggle upright. One of the 6.57, a scrapper of some talent, lent a hand. Winter shook him off.

‘What’s the problem, Baz?’

Mackenzie didn’t answer. The 6.57 marched Winter across the square towards the waiting Bentley. The rear door was already open. At the kerbside Winter hesitated a moment before a push sent him sprawling onto the back seat. Fear, he thought, smells of new leather.

The car rocked under the weight of bodies piling in. Two of
them were sitting on Winter. The car began to move. It seemed to be Mackenzie at the wheel. Winter could hear him on the phone. He hoped to God he wasn’t talking to Marie.

They were going faster now, picking up speed, then came the sudden lurch of a roundabout and Winter gasped with pain as an elbow caught him in the face.

‘Sorry, mush.’ The 6.57 was laughing.

Winter could smell roll-ups. He thought of trying to negotiate, of trying to calm Mackenzie down, but he knew there was no point. This was what he’d been promising
Gehenna
since the operation began. The fact that it was him in the firing line rather than Skelley was immaterial. The next half-hour, he knew, would decide his fate. In these moods Bazza never hung around.

The Covert Ops D/I was still at the street map.

‘Fratton Road, sir. Signalling right by St Mary’s church.’

Suttle was trying to picture the journey, Winter banged up with a bunch of hooligans, Mackenzie for some reason deciding it was time to take a drive. Where were they off to? And what could possibly have sparked this sudden development? According to the D/I, they were now passing the big cemetery beside Kingston Prison. Beyond that lay a short cut to the Eastern Road, which funnelled traffic north onto the motorway.

‘They’re bailing out,’ he muttered. ‘Mackenzie’s had enough.’

He glanced down the table. Willard occupied the seat at the end. He was still watching the election coverage, one ear cocked. Nick Clegg had just acknowledged a disappointing night for the Lib Dems. Life, he said, sometimes takes you by surprise.

Too fucking right, thought Suttle.

The Bentley was slowing down, and Winter could hear the gentle
tick-tick
of the indicator. They turned sharp left,
accelerated, braked, then pulled a hard right. Moments later the big car glided to a halt. For a moment no one moved. Then Winter caught the faint tinkle of keys.

‘Out.’ It was Mackenzie.

The weight of bodies on Winter suddenly eased. Doors opened. Then he felt hands tugging at his legs and he found himself dumped on the pavement. He’d caught his hip on the sill of the door on the way out of the car and he reached down, trying to ease the pain. Mackenzie watched him for a moment and then drove his foot in at exactly the same spot. Winter yelped with pain. Mackenzie did it again, telling him not to fucking squinny, then he was across the pavement, keys in his hand, hunting for the lock in the darkness.

Winter tried to focus. Everything hurt. It looked like a shop of some kind. The pattern on the door looked faintly familiar. Above the display window he could just make out a name. His blood froze. Pompey Reptiles.

Bazza had the door open. Winter felt himself being dragged inside. Then came that smell again, the smell of the urban swamp, the stench of caged flesh, a hot smell, a smell that promised nothing but pain.

Mackenzie was screaming for Sanouk. Winter could hear the patter of footsteps overhead. Then the little man was among them, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Mackenzie had lost it completely. He wanted to know why Sanouk hadn’t changed the name of the shop, like he’d told him to. He wanted to know why no one in this fucking world ever did what they were told. And he promised retribution.

‘Rope, son. We need a rope. Rope? Fucking rope?
Comprende?
’

Sanouk, plainly terrified, disappeared. Seconds later he was back with a length of cord. It looked like the belt from a dressing gown. Mackenzie tossed it to one of the 6.57. Then he found a chair in the corner of the shop and kicked it across the floor.

‘Knife? You’ve got a knife?’

Sanouk disappeared again. When he came back he was carrying a knife. Winter stared at it. It was huge.

Mackenzie told the 6.57 to cut the cord in two. He wanted Winter tied hand and foot, then secured to the chair. The 6.57 did what he was told. One of his mates helped. Looking into their faces, Winter could sense their uncertainty. They knew about Bazza. They knew what he could do. And they knew, above all, that there was no stopping him.

It was Suttle who voiced the obvious question.

‘How long do we let this run?’ he asked.

Willard wouldn’t answer. The surveillance team had Pompey Reptiles plotted up. One of the guys had reported the violence on the pavement. They knew Winter was inside, and it was a reasonable assumption that something horrible was about to kick off. Pompey Reptiles was the only clue you’d ever need. Suttle knew how much Winter hated snakes.

Willard wanted to know whether the Tactical Firearms Unit was at full readiness yet. The TFU liaison D/S had been in the Command Post since mid-afternoon. The last couple of minutes he’d been busy on the emergency frequency, calling in his guys from their holding point at Kingston Crescent.

‘Give me five, sir?’

‘And then?’

‘We can go in.’

Bound to the chair, Winter could see nothing but Mackenzie. By now he’d lost it completely. He bent low, stabbing his finger into Winter’s face. Every accusation, every insult, was flecked with spittle. Winter could do nothing but shut his eyes and wait. When Mackenzie wanted to know more about Marie, more about this fucking fairy-tale affair they were supposed to have had, he simply turned his head away, but every denial, every refusal to reply, simply sparked a deeper anger.

Finally he seemed to accept there’d be no more from Winter. Not, at least, until he’d learned the error of his ways.

He turned on Sanouk again. He wanted the biggest snake he’d got. He wanted Sanouk to wrap it around Winter’s throat and talk to it nicely and get it to do something evil. Then he wanted another snake, smaller this time, something venomous, something with loads of attitude. He wanted this snake in a really bad mood. And he wanted it to end up in Winter’s boxers.

While Sanouk disappeared to find the cage keys, Mackenzie turned on Winter again.

‘You hear what I said, mush?’

Winter nodded.

‘And you know why I’m going to stuff it down your kacks?’

Winter shook his head.

‘Because that’s all your todger’s good for, mush. Snake fucking fodder.’

Winter had given up thinking. What was about to happen was beyond his imagination. He was sure about the surveillance. He knew these guys were good. So what the fuck was happening? How much proof did these people need?

In Parsons’ office the TFU liaison D/S was bent to his radio. The guys had left Kingston Crescent eight minutes ago. This time of night there shouldn’t be a problem with traffic. Then came a muttered voice on the radio. Something had gone wrong. Suttle knew it.

‘Give us a couple more minutes, sir?’ The TFU liaison was looking worried.

Sanouk had produced a baby boa constrictor. The snake was beautiful, green and yellow markings, sleek, perfectly balanced, and the head swayed from side to side, the tiny forked tongue flicking in and out. The 6.57 had backed away but then one of them took a step forward. He’d always wanted to touch a snake and he’d never had the chance.

‘Very valuable.’ Sanouk angled it towards him. ‘Cost much money.’

The 6.57 reached out a hand. The snake reared away. Winter was trying not to look. Of Mackenzie there was no sign.

Then, like an eruption, he was back. He grabbed Sanouk. He’d been looking for something and he couldn’t find it. Sanouk nodded and muttered something Winter didn’t catch. Then Mackenzie was gone again.

The 6.57 was stroking the snake.

‘You want it?’ Sanouk asked. ‘You want hold it?’

The 6.57 shook his head. Then he nodded at Winter and told Sanouk to put it round his neck, just like the man had said.

Sanouk obliged. Winter squeezed his eyes shut. The snake felt surprisingly warm against his flesh. He could feel it moving under his chin. Think scarf, he told himself. Think windy day. Think any fucking thing except being here, in this shop, waiting for a boa constrictor to throttle the life out of you.

Sanouk had reappeared with another snake, much smaller. It was the colour of liquorice. He held it very carefully, his thumb and forefinger under its gullet. The body of the snake lashed around. One of the 6.57 thought it was well pissed off.

Then Mackenzie was back. He had something in his hand Winter couldn’t see. He wanted to know about Marie again. He wanted to know when this thing of theirs had started. He wanted to know when they’d done it, how many times, how long this fucking piece of shit he’d called a mate had been sniffing around his wife.

‘That’s you, mush. You. The guy I fucking trusted. The guy we took down to fucking Cornwall with the kids, for fuck’s sake, the
kids
. Did you have them too, you paedo? Is there anyone in my family you haven’t fucked?’

The violence in his face was terrifying. He told Sanouk to get rid of the boa constrictor. Winter felt the pressure on his throat ease. Relieved, he tried to turn his face away, but Mackenzie
hit him. Then did it again. And again. Winter felt the bite of knuckles in his face. He could do nothing, absolutely fuck all. His mouth was pouring blood. He blew hard through his nose. More blood. He tried to suck in air, knowing he had to keep his head up, knowing he had to stay conscious for long enough to somehow survive.