Borrowed Light

by Hurley, Graham

  Winter loved the way he said ‘us’. A couple of months ago no one in this house had ever heard of Leo Kinder.

  ‘GQ, mush.’ Mackenzie was grinning fit to bust. ‘Leo says they’re up for a big piece for some spring special they’re planning. And it doesn’t stop there, eh, Leo?’

  ‘By no means.’ The smile again. ‘Since the Guardian, the phone’s been ringing non-stop. Everyone wants a piece of what Baz has to say. I’m telling them to form an orderly queue at the door. This stuff’s free. It doesn’t cost us a cent. Plus editorial is the best kicker of all. You can’t buy this kind of coverage, no way. It’s the old story, Paul. The right time and the right place. Like I say, all we have to do is ride the tide.’

  ‘You’re a sweetie, Leo, you really are. I love your optimism. I love your faith. No wonder the Tories kicked you out. But where’s all this stuff going to take you?’

  The question came from a woman at the end of the table. She was Kinder’s age, maybe a year or two older. She had a lean gym-honed face and the scoop-neck T-shirt beneath the linen jacket would have kept Mackenzie happy all evening. The Mercedes, thought Winter. Fashionably black.

  ‘Selina,’ Marie did the introductions, ‘meet Paul. Paul Winter.’

  Winter noted the flash of recognition in her eyes. There wasn’t a particle of warmth in her smile. She was still waiting for an answer from Kinder. Tarting around with the likes of the Guardian was fine, and well done for blagging the interview, but politics was part of the retail business these days, so what exactly did Mr Pompey have to sell?

  ‘There’s a hole in the market, Selina, a niche we can fill. The old Labour core vote has given up on this lot. They’re white, lots of them are skint, jobs are hard to find. They’ve been around a while and they quite liked Mr Blair in the early days, but he turned out to be a Tory so that pissed them off. Brown’s let them down even more. He’s Blair without the charm. These people are lost. They’re in the fucking wilderness. So where do they go?’

  ‘The BNP, if they’ve got any sense.’

  ‘They hate the BNP. It’s in their DNA. And you know something else? They hate politicians too. That’s New Labour’s great achievement, numero uno. They’ve debauched the currency. And I’m not talking money. We need a new kind of politician, someone recognisably human, someone in touch, someone with a bit of guile, a bit of experience. Someone who’s been out there and made a quid or two and knows the way things work. We used to call them Tories, but these days even the Conservatives are New Labour clones. So there you are. You’ve had it up to here with politicians, you think they’re all a waste of space, but the country still has to muddle through. So where do you spend your vote? Who gets to catch your eye?’

  His hand extended across the table towards Mackenzie, an almost courtly gesture of introduction. Bazza, unusually gracious, offered a nod in acknowledgement. Very papal.

  Selina wasn’t convinced. ‘So it doesn’t end with Pompey? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying the time is right to start thinking laterally. For my sins I keep my ear to the ground. Like I say, politicians are damaged goods already, but the way I hear it, things in that department may well get a whole lot worse.’

  The credit crunch, he said, had pushed the bankers against the wall. The government had bailed them out with oodles of public money and they knew they were in for a caning. No more fat year-end bonuses. Loads of regulation. Their greedy hands tied firmly behind their backs.

  ‘And there’s something wrong with all that?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He smiled at her. ‘Unless you’re a banker.’

  To his certain knowledge, he said, a CD had been acquired from a back office in the House of Commons which contained details of MPs’ expenses. The bankers had footed the bill for the CD and were now trying to figure out the best way of making this stuff public.

  ‘Getting your revenge in first?’ It was Bazza.

  ‘Exactly. These guys are bright. They didn’t get rich by accident. They eat politicians for breakfast.’

  Selina wanted to know what was on the CD. Kinder shrugged. He’d seen some extracts, bait to tempt the major broadsheets, and by bankers’ standards the sums were pathetic. But that wasn’t the point. The Brits loved being outraged. Few people ever bothered with the small print, and it would be child’s play to tar every MP with the same brush. Evil grasping bastards. Every last one of them.

  Selina was intrigued. She, like everyone else in the room, had never heard of this impending media storm.

  ‘So when is this going to happen?’

  ‘Give it a couple of months or so. Whichever paper does the deal will need to be lawyered up. And believe me, lawyers take their time.’

  There was laughter around the table. Kinder himself was a lawyer. Lizzie Hodson had said so.

  ‘OK.’ There was a hint of admiration in Selina’s grin. ‘So all politicians are doomed. And about bloody time. But where does that leave our candidate? What do you stand for, Baz? Where are you going to take us all?’

  It was a big question, and Winter knew it was far too late in the evening for Mackenzie to tussle with the mighty issues of the day. Whatever thoughts he had about Afghanistan, global credit flows, the EU, climate change or even – God help him – local government remained a total mystery. But that wasn’t the point. What mattered, he said, was this town of theirs.

  Pompey was in danger of becoming a disgrace. There were people out there, he said, I wouldn’t even wipe my arse on. People with no sense of history, of civic pride, of what it really meant to be living in one of the UK’s greatest cities. These were people who did fuck all except keep their heads down and their noses clean, and feather their own nests. To them Fratton Park was a bit of grass and a bunch of tulips, somewhere to walk their fucking dog. They’d given up on armies of students running riot, and litter all over the fucking street, and the council spending squillions of quid on poncy art installations. The place needed a shake, he said, and he’d be only to happy to oblige. Then would come a dose or two of the old medicine, pick-me-ups that his own mum and dad would recognise. Proper care for the old folk. An open-doors programme for Pompey’s heritage. Lots of money into sport. New stadium for the football club. And a bit of serious discipline in the classroom.

  Selina appeared spellbound. When Mackenzie came to a halt she mimed a silent round of applause. At first Winter assumed this was ironic, that she was taking the piss, but watching her he decided that she probably meant it. This is someone, he thought, who loves grabbing the inside track. She’s heard about Bazza. She knows exactly where the money’s come from. She gets a little jolt of excitement from an evening with Pompey’s favourite gangster. And now it occurs to her that Bad Bazza might be serious and that – far more importantly – this crazy thing might just work.

  The evening broke up shortly afterwards. These were busy people. After tomorrow’s 6 a.m. session at the gym there’d doubtless be more meetings, more flesh to press, more networking. Marie saw them both to the door. Bazza told them to look out for themselves. Then he grabbed the bottle of Remy and towed Winter into the den.

  ‘Face like thunder, mush. What’s the problem?’

  Winter didn’t answer. The poster on the wall was new: Tony Adams and the first team posing in front of the Fratton End. Adams was Pompey’s ex-manager. Someone, presumably Bazza, had obliterated his face with a red Pentel.

  ‘What does SB mean?’

  ‘Sad bastard. A squillion straight games without a win. A rock round our necks would have been cheaper.’ He offered the Remy. ‘You gonna give me grief or what?’

  Winter declined more brandy. ‘Who’s Selina?’ he said.

  ‘Selina Price. Finger in every fucking pie you can name. Nothing moves in this city without the nod from her. Awesome woman. So what’s the problem, mush? You’re not talking to me.’

  ‘I went to the island, did some poking around, just like you wanted.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Mackenzie looked g
enuinely surprised. Maybe he’s forgotten, Winter thought. Maybe all these political fantasies have gone to his head.

  ‘Johnny Holman?’ Winter said. ‘That farm of his?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah … and?’

  ‘I was right. The Old Bill are crawling all over it. MCT are involved as well.’

  ‘MCT?’

  ‘Major Crime Team.’

  ‘So what have they found?’

  ‘I don’t know, Baz. What do you think they’ve found?’

  The balloon of Remy was halfway to Mackenzie’s mouth. It stopped. At last Winter sensed he had the man’s full attention.

  ‘What sort of fucking question is that, mush?’

  ‘I don’t know, Baz. You tell me to get my arse over there. You tell me to knock up the odd contact or two. But like always you don’t tell me why.’

  ‘Why?’ Mackenzie put the glass down. ‘Why? Johnny Holman was a mate of mine in case I never mentioned it. Mates in this town are important. In fact this town is fucking mates. The guy’s been all over the place these last few years. Made a fucking spectacle of himself, poor bastard. In those situations you help out. Who do you think kept them going when the money ran out? Who bunged Julie a grand or two from time to time so she could keep Johnny in beers? Who got them all out to Spain for a fortnight in one of the apartments? Me, mush. And why? Because the guy was a mate. And now he’s gone.’

  ‘So you’ve been in touch with him recently? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Yeah. Absolutely. You want a date? I haven’t a clue. But where I come from, getting in touch is what you do. You have a problem with that?’

  Winter shook his head. He was thinking of Jimmy Suttle. Not a wind-up after all.

  ‘So what did you sort out over there?’ Bazza still hadn’t touched the Remy.

  ‘Not a great deal. I talked to the lad Suttle.’ Bazza knew Suttle from way back.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s driving the intelligence cell.’

  ‘What does that mean in English?’

  ‘It means it’s his job to try and work out why anyone would want to burn Holman’s house down.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re thinking intruders. Someone after something. Or maybe someone settling a debt. Either way Suttle gets to start looking hard at Holman’s associates.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘That includes you, Baz.’

  ‘Us, mush.’

  ‘So …’ Winter shrugged ‘… are we clean on this one? Nothing to hide? Only now’s the time, Baz.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He tipped his head back. ‘You know something, mush? There are cunts in this city, straight cunts, who just love people like us. Them two clowns tonight couldn’t wait to come round here for dinner. And you know why? Because we’re bad. Because we broke the rules. Because we made lots and lots of moolah and didn’t do what Johnny did, didn’t piss it up against the wall. That makes us a bit special, a bit exciting. Weird, isn’t it?’

  Winter nodded. He’d been right about Selina Price.

  ‘You’re not answering the question, Baz. Just tell me you didn’t do anything silly with Johnny Holman.’

  ‘What does Suttle think?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I think what I always think. I think what I thought this morning. I think it’s time to go out and talk to a few people.’

  ‘Like Suttle?’

  ‘Yeah. And one or two others.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like Colin Leyman, for starters.’

  ‘Fattie Leyman? The guy’s mental. He never got out of nappies. What the fuck are you doing talking to Leyman?’

  ‘Because he’s still in touch with the odd face or two.’

  ‘But what’s the point? The bloke’s a dimlo. He should be in a home.’

  ‘Sure, Baz. And that’s why they’ll tell him things. Because they think he’ll never understand. Because they’d think it’ll never go any further.’

  ‘And are they right?’

  ‘Of course they’re not. Leyman’s a lot brighter than you lot ever gave him credit for. You think I’d waste my time otherwise?’

  ‘No, mush, I’m sure you wouldn’t.’ Baz was frowning now. ‘So what did you ask him? What’s he out there looking for?’

  ‘Anything that could explain why someone burned Johnny Holman’s house down. We used to call it motive in the Job.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He left me a message. Says he’s got something for me.’ Winter consulted his watch, then got to his feet. ‘Wish me luck, Baz. I’m round there first thing.’

  Chapter Nine

  WEDNESDAY, 11 FEBRUARY 2009. 07.24

  Faraday was back at the Ryde hotel in time to join Jimmy Suttle for breakfast. After four hours’ sleep, the world was slipping out of focus.

  ‘How was Winter?’ He smothered a yawn.

  ‘Strange. Off the pace. To tell you the truth, boss, I expected better.’ Suttle offered Faraday the bones of their brief encounter. Winter, he said, had wanted chapter and verse on Gosling and had been all too easy to rebuff.

  ‘You think he’s getting old?’ Faraday ducked his head, gave his eyes a squeeze. ‘You think he’s losing it?’

  ‘Dunno, boss. You’re about his age. I expect it can get a bit tricky sometimes.’ He sawed through a rasher of fatty bacon. ‘Do you have a view on that?’

  Faraday knew exactly what he was saying. They were up to their necks in an inquiry that demanded total concentration and there were plainly limits to the slack he was prepared to cut his boss. Faraday shot Suttle a look. Back off.

  ‘I had Parsons on just now,’ Faraday said. ‘She wants to put Winter under obs.’

  ‘That has to be Willard.’

  ‘Exactly my feeling.’

  ‘Is she going to action it?’

  ‘As far as I know. She’s still excited about the hole behind Holman’s place. On the assumption that something is missing, she thinks that same something might belong to Mackenzie.’

  ‘So he burned the house down? Is that how it goes?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s got that far yet. But now Winter’s in the equation, she seems to think it changes everything.’

  Faraday helped himself to a slice of cold toast. Both Parsons and Willard dearly wanted to put Mackenzie away. For years he’d been flaunting his wealth, trailing his matador’s cape across the bullring that was Pompey, and putting Winter on the payroll had for Willard been the last straw. Mackenzie had always been careful to protect himself and his interests. In this sense, Winter was simply another layer of body armour, making Mackenzie even less vulnerable. Unless. Unless.

  ‘So what do you really think?’ Faraday had abandoned the toast.

  ‘About Winter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think he’s starting to get tired of the game.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Yes.’ Suttle nodded. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but I think he’s starting to ask himself whether Bazza Mackenzie was such a great idea.’

  Winter was back at Colin Leyman’s before the milkman called. This early-morning stuff is becoming a habit, he thought. He rang again, then a third time. It was freezing cold, an icy wind blowing in from the sea, and he could hear a radio on inside. At length, stepping away from the house, he caught sight of Leyman peering down at him from an upstairs window. Winter tapped his watch and raised an eyebrow. Time’s moving on. Let me fucking in.

  Leyman, when he finally made it to the front door, wouldn’t look him in the eye. He said he wasn’t very well. It might be infectious. His mum was due any minute. Best to call round some other time.

  ‘Your mum’s dead, Col. Don’t be a twat.’

  Winter stepped into the house, trying to encourage Leyman’s bulk towards the kitchen. It wasn’t in the man to resist. Never had been.

  ‘Tea please, son. And toast would be nice.’<
br />
  Leyman had the sulks now. Bazza had been right: the man was a child. Winter waited to see whether he’d put the kettle on, then did it himself. Leyman was farting fit to bust. Nervous. Good sign.

  ‘So what have you got for me, Col?’

  ‘No way.’ He shook his huge head. ‘I can’t, Mr W.’

  ‘Can’t? How does that work? Last time I checked my mobile you’d sent me a text: Got something for you, Mr W. So …’ Winter shot him a matey grin ‘… what is it?’

  ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘Wrong how?’

  ‘To send the text. I never meant it. It never happened. Oh fuck.’ He had his head in his hands. His shoulders were heaving. ‘Why don’t you just leave me alone?’

  Winter made the tea. He found half a loaf of Hovis and some other bits and pieces in the fridge. The toaster was on the windowsill.

  ‘Jam or Marmite, old son?’

  Leyman was still crying. Marmite, Winter thought. Finally, the head came up.

  ‘That won’t help at all, you being nice. You were always nice, Mr W. I liked you for that.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now’s no different. It’s just that I … you know … just can’t.’

  Winter held the plate out, told him to take it, spooned four sugars into a mug of tea. Guessing what had happened here wasn’t difficult.

  ‘Someone’s been onto you, haven’t they?’

  ‘Who?’ His eyes were wide. He looked terrified. He sucked gratefully at the tea.

  Winter let him take a mouthful or two before leaning forward, intimate, confidential, keen to help.

  ‘Who do you think, Col?’

  ‘I … dunno, Mr W.’

  ‘Think, son.’

  ‘I can’t. I … Shit, I hate this.’ He started to cry again.

  ‘It was Mr Mackenzie, wasn’t it? It was my boss. He’s given you a ring, probably last night, and told you to keep your mouth shut.’ He reached for his own tea. ‘Am I right, Col?’

  Leyman blew his nose on a dishcloth. He didn’t want to hear any of this. He wanted Winter out of his house, out of his life. He wanted to be back in the front room doing something safe. Like organising the slaughter of umpteen thousand Frenchmen.