The Price Of Darkness (32 page)

Faraday scribbled himself a note. Why hadn’t he thought of something so obvious? Imber wanted to know where
Billhook
went from here. Faraday told him about the house-to-house in Thornhill. In the absence of any other lead, it seemed as good a line of enquiry as any.

‘I’m sure you’re right, Joe. How’s the boy doing?’

The boy, Faraday knew, was Jimmy Suttle. He could see him now, juggling two coffees as he picked his way back across the incident room. One of the indexers was a new face - young, raven-haired, pretty. Suttle grinned at her, spilling one of the coffees.

‘He’s fine, Brian. In fact he’s bloody good.’

 

Mackenzie dropped Paul Winter at the main entrance to Southampton General. As Winter buttoned his car coat for the dash through the rain, Bazza leaned over.

‘You want this, mush?’ It was the consultant’s letter.

‘Thanks.’ Winter folded it into his pocket, aware of Mackenzie still watching him. ‘Should be through within the hour, fingers crossed.’

‘No problem. Ring me on the mobile.’

Winter watched the Range Rover purr away. Working for Bazza Mackenzie had brought its own ration of surprises and one of them was how sane and thoughtful he could be. As a working copper, Winter had never associated either of these descriptions with the robber baron who’d built an empire from Pompey drug debts, but now he was beginning to realise that he might have had the man badly wrong. He pushed in through the big double doors, trying to rid himself of a growing sense of bewilderment.

D/I Gale Parsons was occupying an empty office attached to the Imaging Department. She came straight to the point.

‘I’ve been talking to Mr Willard,’ she said at once. ‘To be frank, I found our last exchange somewhat disturbing. We have to make some decisions pretty damn fast. Hence my call last night.’

‘Yeah?’ Winter unbuttoned his car coat. ‘So what did you tell him?’

‘I told him exactly what you’d told me. He had the grace to say he was sorry about the cocaine seizure. You should have been warned. He regrets what happened. He asked me to pass that on.’

‘Great. What else did he say?’

‘I asked him about the deal the pair of you have. Deal was a word he didn’t much like but I think he got my drift.’ She glanced down at some notes on the pad at her elbow. ‘I gather there’s an informal agreement that you return to the job after
Custer
comes to an end.’

‘That’s right. That’s what we agreed. Bazza goes down, along with half his firm, and yours truly is back in harness. He also mentioned some kind of special payment.’

‘I see.’ She reached for a pencil, pursed her lips. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’

‘Not at all. Do I need a lawyer?’

‘Of course you don’t. I hope you trust me.’

‘So what’s the question?’

‘It’s very simple really.’ She sat back in the chair. ‘Why are you doing this?’

Winter took his time. The last couple of days he’d been asking himself exactly the same question.

‘It’s complicated,’ he said at last. ‘I was extremely pissed off with Mackenzie, that’s the first thing, and I suppose I wanted some kind of …’ he shrugged ‘… payback. I know I’ve made life difficult for him in the past but what happened in the van was way over the top. Then there was the challenge of the thing. I’ve been around a bit. I know you can’t pot guys like Mackenzie by playing the white man. You have to break the rules. You have to get under their skins. You have to come at them from the direction they least expect. It’s only that way you’ll get any kind of result.’

‘That’s exactly what Mr Willard said.’

‘I’m not surprised. He nicked it from me.’

Winter’s answer put a smile on her face. She wanted to know more about the deal with Willard.

‘There is no more. It was a handshake thing. Like I said last time, the DUI was a set-up. The least he owes me is my job back.’

‘And you’d be happy with that?’

‘Of course. How many other D/Cs in this town would have taken a scalp like Bazza’s?’

‘And what about … ah … repercussions?’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘People close to Mackenzie who might take offence. You think you can deal with that?’

‘Of course. It’s the rules of the game. If we’ve been smart enough to pot them, they’re down for the consequences. ’

‘But you’re winning these people’s confidence. They trust you. They think you’re genuinely bent.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So afterwards …’ she was staring at the pencil ‘… they might feel there’s a debt to settle.’

Winter, at last, realised where this conversation was heading. He waited until her head came up. He wanted eye contact.

‘This isn’t about me at all, is it?’ he said softly. ‘This is about you. And Mr Willard.’

‘There are issues, certainly, that we should be exploring. ’

‘Like?’

‘This vulnerability of yours. Afterwards.’

‘Sure. And yours too.’

‘I’m not sure I’m following you.’

‘Of course you are. I’m a copper. I accept an invitation to go U/C. I build myself a nice little legend. I’m old, I’m useless, I drink too much, and I’m slung out on my ear. Every Pompey villain knows me. There’s no way I can pretend I’ve never been a cop. But that’s the beauty of it. Half the city thinks I’m bent already. The fact that I end up on Bazza’s books is old news. But then, hey presto, I lay hands on a little evidence or I lay a trap or two, enough to put Bazza away, plus some of his buddies, and there’s a trial, and they all go down, and then months later yours truly, back in the job, gets himself a thorough smacking. Some little Somerstown tyro trying to make a point. Probably half a dozen of them. Naturally, whether I’m dead or just laid out, there’s an inquiry. Who dreamed up this little stunt? Who sanctioned it? Who monitored it? Who failed to anticipate what happened to poor old D/C Winter? And guess where the finger points …’

‘Nice speech.’ Parsons mimed applause. ‘We ought to talk specifics.’

‘Like?’

‘Like Mr Willard’s offer.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘He believes that this business last week, the cocaine seizure, has changed the scenario. To put it bluntly, he believes you may be at risk.’

‘I’ve been at risk from the start.’

‘More at risk.’

‘He wants to withdraw me? Abort the whole thing? Only that could be tricky. In fact that would leave me completely in the shit. What do I tell Bazza? That I’ve got a headache? That the money’s crap? That I’m really a copper? Do me a favour, boss. This is like the cocaine thing all over again. In fact it’s worse. Those guys know where I live. They’d nail me to the floor.’

‘That’s exactly the point.’

‘What’s the point?’

Parsons studied him for a long moment. Then she pushed the notepad to one side.

‘I have to be frank. We’ve done a full risk assessment. It’s late in the day, I admit, but at least we’ve got to grips with it.’

‘Who’s “we”?’

‘Myself and Mr Willard. There’s no question of pulling you out, not at this point in the operation, not unless you insist, and of course that’s
absolutely
your right, but whatever happens we’re obliged to offer you resettlement.’

‘You what?’ Winter was staring at her now. ‘
Resettlement?
’

‘Exactly. We’ll make sure you have the whole package, of course. New ID, new passport, new documentation, new address. Full pension.’

‘
Pension?
’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘You’d have a choice. Canada, New Zealand or Australia. We’d pay all relocation expenses plus we’d find you suitable accommodation until you’d had a chance to find your feet.’

‘And then?’

‘We’d contribute to the capital cost of a house or a flat, whatever you chose. There’d be adjustments, of course, depending on your own financial circumstances, once you’d sold your own place.’ She reached for the pad again, and picked up the pencil. ‘Gunwharf, isn’t it?’

Winter ignored the question. He was still absorbing the implications of this bombshell.

‘The full makeover then. A new me. Put out to grass.’ The phrase made him laugh.

Parsons didn’t see the joke. ‘Absolutely.’ She nodded. ‘Mr Willard and I both agree it’s an appropriate outcome.’

‘And what if I say no?’

‘Then we’d have to look at other pathways forward.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a transfer to another force.’

‘In the UK?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘But not Pompey?’

‘No.’

‘So there’s no way I can get back to the job? Like he promised?’

‘I’m afraid not. Not the way things have panned out. It’s for the best, Paul, believe me.’

There was a long silence. Winter could hear the clatter of a trolley in the corridor outside. At length Parsons adjusted the collar of the white coat she must have borrowed. Winter felt like asking her for an aspirin.

‘I’m fucked,’ he said softly.

‘Paul, I’m not hearing this.’

‘No?’ He gazed at her, robbed of anything coherent to say. Two weeks undercover. A fortnight on the hardest job he’d ever been asked to sort out. Moments when he was certain they’d sussed him. Moments when he knew he’d be lucky to get away with a beating. And now this. Fucked. Rebottled. Relabelled. Stuffed on a plane and exported to the other side of the world. He shook his head. Looked away. There were tears in his eyes. He didn’t want her to see them.

‘Naturally, we don’t expect a response immediately, certainly not this afternoon …’ she glanced at her watch ‘… but we’d appreciate some kind of decision soon. Maybe in a couple of days. Would that be asking too much?’

Winter was still gazing into nowhere. There were two things he held precious in his life. One was the job. The other was Pompey. And here they were. Both gone. He tipped his head back a moment, gazing up at the ceiling. He had to get a grip. Now, above all, he had to make-believe.

‘I appreciate it, boss.’ He gave her a smile. ‘It’s nice to know you’ve thought this thing through.’

He got to his feet and made for the door. Only when he’d opened it did she call him back.

‘I’m glad you see it our way, Paul,’ she said. ‘Mr Willard, to be frank, had his doubts.’

 

Half an hour later, Bazza returned in the Range Rover. Shreve was in the back, reading a copy of
Exchange and Mart.
Winter hurried across to the kerb and climbed in. It wasn’t until they’d left the one-way system that Bazza enquired about the scan.

‘What did they find?’

‘Sod all, Baz.’ Winter felt unaccountably light-headed. ‘And you know why? Because there’s nothing fucking there.’

THURSDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 2006.
08.01

 

Jimmy Suttle, much to his embarrassment, was late for the breakfast meet. She was already waiting for him at the table at the back of the café. She must have been there a while because she’d nearly finished the
Guardian
quick crossword. She spared him a brief glance as he sank into the other chair.

‘Disorder. Five letters.’

‘Chaos.’

‘Very good.’ She pencilled the answer in. ‘How are you?’

‘Knackered.’

He’d known Lizzie Hodson, on and off, for the best part of a year. Small and baby-faced with a first-class honours degree in political science, she was a surprise addition to the
News
reportorial staff, but Suttle had always believed her when she said she loved the city, and her passion for the job itself had never been in dispute. Dogged, nosy and unforgiving, he’d often told her she’d make a great detective.

Now she carefully folded the paper and stowed it in her rucksack.

‘So how much do you know?’ she asked.

‘The basics. A chain of ironmongers. A dozen or so shops across the south. Sold as a going concern three years ago. Collapsed soon afterwards. Does that sound about right?’

She nodded. He’d phoned her last night. Another contact at the
News
had mentioned an investigative piece she’d done on Gullifant’s, the week the company went bust. He’d tried to access the feature from the
News
website but without success. Hence his offer to buy breakfast.

‘Full fried? The works?’ Suttle was studying the menu.

She shook her head. She’d had a bowl of muesli first thing. Another coffee would be good. No sugar.

‘You mind if I … ?’ He gestured at the menu. He was starving.

‘Go ahead. Did you get the flat in the end?’

‘Yeah. I exchanged last week.’

‘The place in North End? The one you showed me?’

‘Yeah. I held off for a bit because I thought I was in for a decent settlement after last year but in the end it was only four grand so the mortgage turned out bigger than I wanted.’