Winter was the last to sit down. Faraday noticed the smile on Mackenzie’s face.
‘All right, Paul? Life treating you OK?’
‘Never better, Baz. You?’
‘Cushy, mate. This is Nelly, my brief. Can’t believe the rubbish restaurants in this city. Wants me to sort out a decent Chinky. Any ideas?’
Winter held his gaze for a moment or two, then glanced at Faraday and sat down. Nelly Tien had already produced a yellow legal pad and a Mont Blanc fountain pen. She was interested in nobody but Faraday.
‘You phoned this morning. My client was unable to take your calls at the time but is happy to help you in any way he can. So … ’ She offered Faraday a cold smile. ‘ … What seems to be the problem?’
‘We wanted a key, Ms Tien.’
‘To what?’
‘A caravan.’
‘But what’s that got to do with Mr Mackenzie?’
‘I understand it belongs to him. At least, it’s on his premises.’
Winter was watching Mackenzie. For the first time it occurred to him that he might be unaware of the search team descending on Hayling Island.
Just a flicker of curiosity. Or more likely irritation. ‘Where’s that?’
‘North Shore Road, Mr Mackenzie. The officer in charge has a search warrant.’
‘On what grounds?’ It was the solicitor again. The sharp sideways flash of her eyes warned Mackenzie to leave it to her.
‘We’re pursuing enquiries in connection with a recent death. The magistrate was satisfied that a search of the caravan might be pertinent to those enquiries.’
‘On what grounds?’ she repeated.
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that information. At least, not yet.’
‘My client has a right to know. It’s his property.’
‘Your client will be given the appropriate information at the appropriate time. All you need to know for now is that we shall complete the search as expeditiously as we can. And that we shall, of course, be arranging for a replacement lock. In the meantime it might be useful if Mr Mackenzie could furnish us with a list of workmen with access to the caravan. As you say, it’s his property.’
‘Big deal,’ Mackenzie murmured. ‘This is about Duley, isn’t it? Little fucker in the tunnel?’
There was a long silence. Winter was grinning. Nelly Tien had folded her arms. She looked extremely angry.
At length, Faraday glanced at his watch.
‘I’m going to have to make this formal,’ he said. ‘Ms Tien, we’ll be conducting the rest of this interview at the Bridewell. Under caution.’
‘What if I don’t want to come?’ Mackenzie wanted to know.
‘I’ll arrest you. Your choice.’
Faraday got to his feet. Nelly Tien was staring up at him.
‘Arrest Mr Mackenzie for what?’
‘Suspicion of murder.’
‘Murder?’ Mackenzie was laughing now, leaning forward over the table, eyeballing Winter. ‘When? How?’
‘Are you coming to the Bridewell or not?’
Faraday had got to the door. Mackenzie ignored him.
‘Duley got himself killed on Sunday, right? That’s what they’ve been saying all week in the News. So why don’t you ask me where I was Sunday night? Isn’t that what you blokes do? Check it all out? Draw your little diagrams? Lay yer little traps? Go on then. Ask me. Put the question. You think I got this tan in fucking Petersfield?’
Winter gave the question some thought. Then brought his face very close to Mackenzie’s.
‘Big mistake, Baz, leaving Misty like that.’ He patted his hand. ‘She gets lonely, you know. Misses it.’
Faraday detailed Winter and another DC to accompany Mackenzie and his solicitor to the interview suite at the Bridewell. Returning to his office, he picked up the phone. DS Brian Imber, to his knowledge, was still operating from the Intelligence set-up at Havant police station. As a key part of Tumbril, he too had been badly burned by the collapse of the operation and had kept the file open ever since. Winter was the only other officer in the city with in-depth knowledge of the shape and spread of Mackenzie’s empire, and after the last fifteen minutes Faraday badly needed a second opinion.
‘Brian? It’s Joe.’
Quickly, Faraday summarised the case against Mackenzie. At the Bridewell he’d doubtless be running a cast-iron alibi. What Faraday wanted was a steer to other names.
‘Like who, Joe?’
‘Heavies. Blokes on the payroll who’d be happy to put the boot in.’
‘Strap someone to a railway line, you mean?’ Already, Faraday knew how fanciful it sounded. Imber had another word. ‘It’s rubbish, Joe. There’s no way Mackenzie would sanction anything like that. This guy didn’t get rich by pulling stunts. It’s cartoon stuff. You’re away with the fairies.’
‘Names, Brian. Just give me names.’
Imber obliged. There was an ex-matelot called Jamie Frensham who occasionally knocked people around for a lot of money. There was another bloke, much younger, who specialised in terrifying sitting tenants out of properties Bazza wanted to acquire. Then there was a new guy, Brummie hardman, to whom Bazza had recently taken quite a shine.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Brett West. They call him Chalky. He’s black. First met Mackenzie through the football. Useful player. Once had trials for Villa.’
‘And you say he’s violent?’
‘He’s whatever Bazza wants. Man for all seasons, Brett. Good with a drill if you want a kneecapping. Babysits, too, the way I hear it. Very keen on the laughing powder though, so he can be a bit of a liability.’
Faraday added his name to the list. Duley had been beaten up a couple of weeks ago. West sounded a definite runner and was maybe in the frame for the tunnel job as well. He put the possibility to Imber.
‘No chance, Joe. Absolutely none.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Chalky’s been inside since May. Possession with intent to supply. Didn’t even bother to go No Comment. No, Joe. Based on what you just told me, I’d be amazed if Mackenzie had anything to do with this Duley. It’s just not his MO. He’d be off his trolley even thinking about it.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive. The slapping in the caravan, if there was one? Maybe. Pompey’s full of nippers who can’t wait to be Bazza, and if this Kearns blew a load of stake money, then Mackenzie would definitely want a word or two. Duley sounds like a handy target and Kearns would have to be brain-dead if he didn’t take advantage of that. But the Buriton job? That’s unnecessary, completely over the top. You can stick a lot on Mackenzie, and personally I’d love to, but I’ve never had him down as theatrical.’
Theatrical. Faraday paused. He’d used the term himself. Imber, as ever, was right. The carefully composed tableau in the tunnel, torn apart by the train then painstakingly reassembled in the chill of a Winchester post-mortem room.
Theatrical.
‘I’m grateful, Brian.’ Faraday was already on his feet. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
The interview at the Bridewell dead-ended after the first ten minutes. En route from Kingston Crescent, Faraday had checked with Jerry Proctor about progress on the search of Mackenzie’s caravan. Proctor had confirmed bloodstains on a mattress and on an area of lino under a table but it would be forty-eight hours at least before he could establish any DNA link with Mark Duley. His team, he said, would probably be through by close of play. The caravan was largely empty, its use evidently confined to blokes on site who wanted to use the Calor gas stove to make themselves a brew. As far as fingerprints were concerned, they’d so far gathered more than a dozen lifts, and were still counting. They’d also be looking for tyre marks around the property that might offer a match to the casts recovered from the plantation next to the railway line.
Faraday shared the interview with Paul Winter. Under normal circumstances he’d have devoted a couple of hours to careful preparation but, as the Detective Superintendent had
already pointed out, this exchange with Mackenzie was hopelessly premature. As ever, Pompey’s premier drug baron had forced his hand.
The formal caution did nothing for Mackenzie’s temper. Ignoring his solicitor, he challenged Faraday to pin down his movements over the previous weekend.
‘The guy Duley’s in the tunnel on Sunday night, right?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘OK, so ask me. Go on, fucking ask me.’
‘Mr Mackenzie—’
‘Mr Mackenzie, bollocks. Ask me where I was. Ask me what I was doing. Ask me how I can prove it. Is all that a bit straightforward for you? OK, here’s where I help you out. Wednesday the week before last, I go to Heathrow. I take an Emirates flight to Dubai. Naturally I go first class because that’s the way that successful people like me travel. You want proof of that? I have a ticket. I have a boarding card. I have a nice little stamp in my passport. Plus I have a trillion extra air miles because I’m the ragheads’ favourite passenger. OK, that puts me three thousand miles from Pompey. What do I do then? Well, things being the way they are, I fancy getting my head down. So it’s off to the Burj Al Arab hotel, and seconds later I’m spark out. Over the next week I’m shopping. And getting nice and bronzy. And having a little punt on the horses. And guess what, Mr Detective, on Sunday, I pull a winner at - wait for it - twenty to one. That’s more money in five minutes than you clowns earn in a couple of months. And you want more bad news? I’ve still got the winning slip and one of those nice digital photos with the date and time on it. Mate of mine took the photo that night. We were back at the hotel having a bevvy or two. That’s the Burj again, butler service for every suite, enough Krug to fill the bath, three in the fucking morning, Monday the eleventh. So how come bad Bazza’s supposed to be in some khazi of a tunnel? Three thousand miles away?’
‘You obviously know Duley.’ It was Winter.
‘Who said?’
‘You know his name. Back in our nick you called him a “little fucker”. You’re right, too. He’s a streak of piss. Or was. But how did you know?’
‘I don’t. I never did. Where I come from, “little fucker”’s a phrase. It’s someone who causes umpteen people all kinds of grief.’
‘Grief? What kind of grief?’
‘This for starters. I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve got better things to do with my time than listen to bollocks about caravans. Whatever happened to the guy, he probably deserved it. But don’t even begin to think you can put me in the frame.’
There was a brief silence. Before the interview started Faraday had mentioned the discovery of certain items from North Shore Road to Mackenzie’s solicitor. Now he wanted to discuss this matter in greater depth. Mackenzie wasn’t having it.
‘Sash cord? Some poxy chain? Bit of angle iron? You guys are off the wall, totally out of order, and, more to the point, you know it. Stuff goes missing from building sites every minute of the day. That’s why we have to chain it up. Any more of this pantomime and I’ll tell the Dragon Queen here to do you for harassment. You fancy that? Only believe me, she’s awesome when she really gets going.’
At that point, led back to his chair after heading for the door, Mackenzie had gone No Comment. The interview, as far as he was concerned, was over.
Faraday drove Winter back to Kingston Crescent. Winter was looking glum. True, they could nick Mackenzie any time they liked and drag him back to the Bridewell but, without evidence, it would simply provoke another mouthful.
‘Some of that felt personal.’ Faraday was waiting for the lights to change in Fratton Road.
‘I’m not with you, boss.’
‘You and Mackenzie. The dig about Misty. What was all that about?’
‘I was winding him up. Normally works, too.’
‘I don’t buy it. There’s something else, isn’t there?’ He glanced across at Winter. ‘When did you last see Mackenzie, as a matter of interest?’
‘Can’t remember,’ he said at last. ‘Must have been a while ago.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter forced a smile. ‘Weeks ago probably. I’m crap at dates.’
‘OK.’ Faraday nodded. ‘So what did you make of the interview? Still convinced that Mackenzie was involved? ’
‘In the slapping, definitely.’
‘And the tunnel?’
The lights went green. Winter turned away.
‘No fucking comment,’ he muttered.
Back in his office, Faraday brooded. Brian Imber was a good copper, one of the best. Winter, too. Between them, these two men could probably muster fifty years of CID experience. Both knew the city backwards. And both of them, despite Winter’s obvious disappointment, had virtually ruled out any direct link between Mackenzie and what was left of Mark Duley once the train had torn him apart.
The Detective Superintendent was due back in an hour or so. Ahead of this evening’s squad meeting, Faraday had to come up with new lines of enquiry that somehow took account of yesterday’s finds at North Shore Road. All three items recovered from the property had been dispatched for detailed forensic examination and Faraday himself was in no doubt that they would supply a perfect match for the articles recovered from the tunnel. Workers on site with access to the caravan had been pulled in for detailed questioning. But where, without a breakthrough, would that take Coppice?
Faraday lifted the phone. He wanted an update on the billing enquiries on Duley’s mobile plus a full list of cars caught on CCTV returning to Portsmouth in the early hours of Monday 11 July. Maybe they’ve already managed to trace a black BMW, he thought. Or maybe the time’s come to widen the CCTV search parameters. Southampton. Chichester. Brighton. Wherever.
Babs answered Faraday’s call to the Intelligence Cell. As far as she knew, they were still waiting on billing and cell site data from Vodaphone but she’d give the TIU a ring and see if they could exert any extra pressure. Regarding the CCTV logs, she had a list that she was pretty certain was up to date.
‘Is there a black BMW 4×4 on there?’
‘Wait one, sir. I’ll check.’
She was back on the line within a minute. DCs working down at the CCTV control room, she said, had logged 127 cars between 03.00 and 04.00. After registration checks, they’d so far done house calls on eighty-four owners.
‘What about the rest?’
‘Most of them were out, sir. They’re still doing call-backs. I’m sure DC Winter will keep you posted.’
‘Is he there?’
‘No, sir. He’s popped out for some air.’
Paul Winter sat in the café, glad of the swirl of fag smoke and conversation that thickened the brutal heat of the street outside. When he was really low, he had a habit of adding an extra spoonful of sugar to his mug of tea. This afternoon he’d seriously thought of emptying the entire bowl into the thin brown liquid that passed, in this place, for a cuppa.
Life, to Winter, had always been about coming out on top. Year after year, the city had delivered his share of trophy convictions, small-time or quality criminals who, one way or another, had underestimated the matey quip and easy smile and found themselves paying the price in court.
In this ceaseless hunt for battle honours Winter had won himself a reputation that he cherished. Many of his colleagues viewed him with alarm. A handful, when pressed or legless, acknowledged that he had a kind of genius, an instinct for human weakness that he deployed with great charm and equal ruthlessness. Winter, they confessed, was unmatched as a thief-taker, a talent they put down to the way he’d been made. Had he not, through some accident of circumstance, gone into the job, then he’d doubtless have been a career criminal, and a good one. Big spread in Malaga. Nice motor. Plus a reputation around the city for staying several laps ahead of the Filth.
Winter cherished this reputation of his. Until very recently he hadn’t wanted, or needed, friends. Neither was he especially fussed about accumulating a stack of money, or any of the other consumer goodies that seemed to badge eve
ryone else’s tiny lives. No, what fuelled him, what roused him every morning with a smile on his face, was respect. People knew his name. People took notice. People talked about him. And when they did so, they never took him lightly.
Saturday night and Sunday morning had changed all that, and he knew from the expression on Mackenzie’s face that word would have gone round. They’d lifted him before it was even bloody dark. They’d stuffed him in the back of some twat builder’s van, they’d driven him around for a while, played with him, and been clever enough for once not to let slip a single clue. For all he knew, Mackenzie himself may have been in the van. Alternatively, on top of the photos they’d snapped, he may have bunged them a video camera, demanded a tape, struck copies, sent them round to selected friends. A little present, he’d have said. Pull up an armchair. Switch on the telly, Pour yourself a drink. Enjoy. He’d even let them feed him a couple of chips, for fuck’s sake. And when they’d finally pushed him into the night - bollock naked - they’d scribbled the world a little message for luck. Winter the tame monkey. Number 47. What kind of reputation could he expect after that? Criminals he could handle; humiliation was something else.
They had his mobile too, and Winter’s heart sank still further at the thought of what they could do with it. As Faraday had pointed out, there were countless numbers on the SIM card. Thankfully, he’d always kept a separate mobile for informants, but here, now, he could list two dozen officers - from Detective Superintendents downward - who would be obvious candidates for a wind-up call or two. I expect you’re wondering how we got your number, the voice would say. And I expect you’re wondering just who the fuck I am. So why don’t you talk to that nice DC Winter? And while you’re at it, maybe you should ask him about the tiger prawns … eh?
Winter shuddered at the prospect, surprised that it hadn’t happened already. By facing Mackenzie down in the interview he’d done his best to win back the merest hint of self-respect, but he knew that this brief truce couldn’t last. Sooner or later, Mackenzie or one of his trusties would cash in on all those numbers, and at that point Winter would be history.
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