The Price Of Darkness (11 page)

‘I’m not with you, son.’

‘You’re working with Mackenzie, the way I hear it. Am I right?’

‘Yeah …’ Winter nodded, ‘… In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am.’

‘He pays you? You take his money?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So they’re true then, these rumours?’

‘Yeah. Except …’ Winter paused, frowned, looking for another word.

‘Except what?’

‘Except nothing. You’re right. It’s true. I run the odd errand. I make the odd suggestion. It’s what you do in my situation, unless you want to sit at home all day and climb the walls.’

‘What about a real job? What about working for some brief? Delivering writs? Making notes in court? Just like every other ex-copper?’

‘I didn’t fancy it, son. And the pay’s crap.’

‘He pays well, then? Mackenzie?’

‘Well enough.’ Winter had barely touched his glass since Suttle had arrived. ‘You sound pissed off, son.’

‘Not pissed off. Just disappointed.’

‘
Disappointed?
How does that work?’

‘Easy. It’s about Mackenzie. The man’s a scumbag. So are the people who run with him. Take the bastard out and this would be a decent city to live in.’

‘That’s bollocks, son,’ Winter said mildly. ‘Take Mackenzie out and we’d be back to the days when the place looked like Beirut. Where do you think the money for all these flash refurbs comes from? The café-bars? The seafront hotels? You think all that money comes from the government? From the Good Fairy? Mackenzie’s a suit these days. He’s a face, a player. He spends money. He invests. He turns half-arsed businesses around. He creates jobs for young kids. He makes life in this shithole just a little bit more pleasant.’

‘So we’re lucky to have him? Is that it? Only I remember the days when you couldn’t wait to put him away.’

‘That was then. This is now. And now, son, is too late.’

‘How come?’

‘Because the guy’s made it. Because he’s king of the castle. Because there isn’t a solicitor or an accountant or a councillor or anyone else with a bit of clout in this city who’d say a bad word against him. Bazza’s home safe, son. He’s out of reach. We’ve lost him.’

‘That’s pathetic.’

‘Who says?’

‘Me. And you know why? Because the day we chuck the towel in over Bazza is the day we might as well chuck the towel in for good. The bloke’s bent. He’ll always be bent. And the way it is now we’re sending a fucking great message to every toerag kid in this city. You know what that message is? Forget school. Forget exams. Bent pays.’

‘I’m afraid it does.’ Winter nodded. ‘It’s a fact of life, son.’

‘
Fact of life?
What happened to you, Paul? What happened in that head of yours? Maybe it was that surgeon over in Phoenix. Maybe he took out more than he should have done. Maybe it’s not your fault, not your doing. Maybe I should tell all the blokes at work that you’re not the lying devious scumbag who sold out to Bazza Mackenzie. You know what they’re saying now? They’re saying it’s no surprise, what you’re up to. They’re saying you’ve been at it for years.’

‘With Mackenzie?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you? What do you think?’

‘I’m going with the surgeon theory. I think he made a mistake. I think you’re clinically deranged.’ He suddenly bent forward and touched glasses. ‘Cheers, you bent old bastard.’

Winter, with some relief, swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of Stella. He wanted to know about the Port Solent job, about life on Major Crimes, about Faraday. Suttle looked at him, amused now, no longer angry.

‘You sound like you miss it.’

‘I do. Of course I do. Not all of it. Not all the PC bollocks about risk assessments and approach strategies. But this …’ He tapped the newspaper. ‘Yeah, of course I miss it.’

Suttle told him a little about Mallinder’s death. Professional job. Middle of the night. Single shot to the head. Couple of promising lines of enquiry.

‘Like what?’

‘Can’t say, mate.’ He shook his head, changing the subject. ‘You remember Terry Byrne? Scouse headcase?’

‘Pennington Road? Couple of pit bulls? Wraps of smack at a fiver each?’

‘That’s him. Except it’s not smack any more, or not just smack. The bloke’s into the laughing powder, big time. We had a D/I down from Devon and Cornwall, a real looker. They’d got intel on Byrne, fuck knows where from, but they’d put him alongside a couple of kilos headed for the West Country. She’s after nicking the courier on the way home, got the whole thing plotted up, but that’s not really the point, is it? What’s your new boss doing? Letting psychos like Byrne get away with that kind of weight?’

‘Two kilos?’ Winter began to laugh. Then he reached across and gave Suttle a pat on the arm. ‘This is kosher?’

‘So she said.’

‘And is that why you’ve come? You want to send Bazza a message?’

‘Not at all. I’m just curious. I thought you might be in a position to know.’

‘I know nothing. If you want the truth, he’s put me in charge of some wank idea involving jet skis. You know what the bloke’s like. He chucks you a bone, tells you to get on with it. Except this bone’s fucking enormous.’

‘
Jet skis
?’

‘Yeah.’

He told Suttle about Mark’s accident, the trip out to Cambados for the funeral and Bazza’s absolute determination to come up with some kind of memorial. At first he’d assumed the Mackenzie Trophy was a joke. Now he knew different.

Suttle was fascinated. He wanted to know more about the trip to Spain.

‘So you’re socialising with all these guys, Bazza’s lot - drinking with them, eating with them, partying with them … how does that work?’

‘It doesn’t. They know who I am. They still take the piss. And I do, back. Bazza would like us all to be mates, I can see him trying to work on that, but it’ll never happen. You’re right, son. Do what I’ve done all those years and you’re lumbered.’

‘Once a copper always a copper?’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘Must be hard then? Lonely even? Socially?’

‘Sure. You’re right. But then it was before. In the job.’

Winter’s head went down a moment, then he looked up again. Suttle was watching him carefully.

‘You know what happened at the end? When they nicked me for DUI? You know what
really
happened?’

‘Yeah. You were three times over the limit.’

‘Exactly. But they knew exactly where I was drinking, what time I’d be there, the lot, and they’d got the whole place plotted up. Maybe someone fitted me up. Maybe someone made a phone call. Either way it doesn’t matter. The minute I’d turned the key in the motor, the moment I’d started to pull out from that little cut across the road from the pub, they had me. And you know something else? They were fucking loving it, every minute of it, back of the traffic car, down to the Bridewell, book me in, arrange a sample, the whole nine yards.’

‘It had been a long time coming. You’d been winding them up for years.’

‘Sure. And maybe that made it all the sweeter. But it doesn’t change anything, does it? Twenty-plus years in the job. More scalps than any other fucker. And they end up pulling a stroke like that.’ He shook his head, reaching for his glass again, then caught Suttle’s eye. ‘Don’t give me that look, son. I’m on foot tonight. Not that I have much choice any more.’

 

Faraday was back in his Mondeo, en route home, when his mobile began to trill. He glanced in the mirror then reached for the cradle.

‘Yes?’

It was Barrie. He’d finished the last of his meetings at HQ and wanted an update. Faraday slowed for the next queue of traffic, wondering where to start. The
Billhook
squad meet, to be frank, had been a disappointment. There comes a moment in most inquiries when the optimism and zip of the first forty-eight hours begins to evaporate, leaving the slow, measured plod towards some kind of result. Not that the team had returned entirely empty-handed.

‘CCTV have come up with a hit on the Port Solent car park camera, boss. The black Escort was there from around ten onwards. Two blokes picked it up at half twelve.’

‘Where did they go?’

‘They didn’t.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘They just sat there. Until four minutes past three. Then they drove off.’

‘Description?’ Barrie was sounding almost cheerful.

‘One guy was much bigger than the other. The smaller bloke is the one wearing the grey hoodie. The guys tried the zoom and everything, but the grain on screen gets horrible.’

‘What about the place in the New Forest? The car park?’

‘I’m afraid we drew a blank. You were right, boss. Everything was trampled.’

‘Shame.’ Barrie was obviously thinking hard. ‘We need bodies back into the marina, any place that was open Monday night, pubs, restaurants, fitness clubs, the lot. These two blokes must have been in there somewhere. The hoodie might ring a bell or two.’

‘Done, boss. It’s actioned for tonight.’

‘Excellent. This car park in the New Forest. Wasn’t that where the Escort was nicked in the first place?’

‘The New Forest, yes. But a different car park.’

‘No witnesses in the first car park? Where the car got nicked?’

‘Not so far. I’ve arranged for posters at the site but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

‘Where was the owner?’

‘Out running. He ended up taking a cab home.’

Faraday eased forward. The traffic lights a couple of hundred metres ahead had just gone red again. Barrie wanted to know about the development company handling the Tipner site.

‘Outside Enquiries put a couple of blokes in this afternoon. They did an interview with the guys who run it.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘Bit of a mystery, sir. Mallinder’s interest turns out to be a lot more casual than we thought. They’ve had a couple of conversations with him, sure, and I gather Mallinder was up to speed on the latest financial projections. Apparently the scheme’s very tight. Don’t hold me to these figures but I gather they’re looking at around three hundred million pounds overall costs which leaves a nominal profit of around forty million.’

‘That’s
tight
? Forty million quid?’

‘So they say. Forty million is around twelve per cent. Most developers won’t get out of bed unless they’re looking at fifteen per cent plus. The real money’s in residential. At the moment the council are holding out for thirty per cent affordable housing. If they can get that down to fifteen per cent, it starts looking more attractive.’

‘What about the Tipner ranges?’

‘They say the MoD won’t budge. And they swear blind they’ll be the first to know if they ever do. This lot are the council’s preferred developers. They’ve got the thing pretty much stitched up.’

‘So what’s Mallinder been up to?’

‘Pass, sir. The more we know about Tipner, the less it fits his MO. Mallinder, Benskin have never done anything this complicated. It’s full of aggravation and to make things worse there are rumours of a new football stadium on the site. No wonder Benskin didn’t fancy it.’

‘You’re going to talk to him again?’

‘In the end, yes. And there’s another line of enquiry he might be able to help us with.’

‘What’s that?’

Faraday described the interview with Aliyah Begum. In his view, they were looking at a possible motive.

‘Revenge, you mean?’ Barrie got there first. ‘Teaching our friend a lesson?’

‘Something like that.’

There was silence on the line. Barrie was thinking. Then he came back.

‘A single bullet? No clues? No forensic? Don’t get me wrong, Joe, but our Asian friends wouldn’t bother with a hit man, would they? Supposing you’re on the right lines? Odds on they’d use a knife, blood up the walls, real horror show. It’s a nice idea of yours but I can’t see it somehow.’

‘I’ve still asked Outside Enquiries to action it, sir.’ Faraday said. ‘They’re doing a couple of visits tomorrow. The grocery store and the restaurant. Can’t do any harm.’

‘Of course not. Anything else?’

‘’Afraid not.’

‘How about that vagrant son of yours?’

‘Ah …’ Faraday smiled ‘… now you’re talking.’

 

The Bargemaster’s House lay beside Langstone Harbour, on the city’s eastern shore. Thanks to a large cheque from Janna’s American parents weeks after her death, the sturdy Victorian red-brick dwelling had become home for Faraday and his infant son. And over the intervening years, as the implications of J-J’s deafness became more and more obvious, Faraday’s love for the place had deepened to the point where he couldn’t imagine life without it.

He had a love-hate relationship with gardening and never quite managed to keep up with repairs to the timber cladding on the upper storey, but the view in the early morning from his first-floor study - the rich yellow spill of dawn sunlight over the water, the incessant comings and goings of Langstone birdlife - never failed to put a smile on his face. In an often troubled world, he knew he owed the Bargemaster’s House a great deal. It served, above all, as a kind of sanctuary.

Gabrielle’s camper was parked in the road outside. J-J hadn’t bothered to unload the mountain of bags in the back.
Plus ça change.

Faraday eased the Mondeo onto the hardstanding at the rear of the house, realising with something of a shock that he hadn’t seen his son for nearly two years. After a grounding in video production in Portsmouth and London, J-J had somehow organised himself an attachment to an editing outfit in Moscow. Faraday had never quite grasped exactly what he was doing out there but his occasional e-mails were bursting with even more enthusiasm than usual and the gaunt young face in the handful of photos he’d sent had even put on a little weight.

Faraday pushed in through the front door. Already he could hear laughter from upstairs. Gabrielle, he thought. He made his way up to the top landing. His study door was half open. J-J and Gabrielle were sitting in front of Faraday’s PC, sorting through a sequence of photos. Most of the faces looked Russian - badly shaved old men huddled in threadbare anoraks, sleek middle-aged women laden with shopping bags - and the photos must have been taken in winter because the streets and rooftops behind were crusted with snow.