Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  Winter had always liked to think that this was more than repayment for a blinding apprenticeship, and he was right. Suttle, in a way, had become the son he’d never had, and even Winter’s decision to bin the Job and cross to the Dark Side had still left the relationship pretty much intact. Suttle had never hidden his feelings about the move Winter had made. Bazza Mackenzie disgusted him. The man had always been lowlife, and no amount of moolah and posh friends in Craneswater would ever change that. But Suttle had the balls, rare among Winter’s ex-colleagues, to give any man a hearing, and his affection for Mackenzie’s new lieutenant had somehow survived. Winter, he knew for a fact, was a class operator. He was also, deep down, a decent man. And so Suttle, despite everything, still regarded him as a mate.

  ‘You look knackered, son.’ Winter tipped his glass. ‘Here’s to crime.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Suttle took a long pull at the Stella and then lay back, gazing at the wall opposite. The phone call to Lizzie seemed to have tripped a switch deep in his brain. The earlier impatience had gone. It had been his wife’s suggestion to ask Winter whether he’d like to be a godfather to Grace, and just now he was deeply thankful he’d said yes.

  ‘This is fucking horrible,’ he said softly.

  ‘What, son?’

  ‘Everything. Lizzie. The baby. The lot.’

  Winter, who’d never had kids of his own, could only nod. ‘I bet.’

  ‘I’m serious. Maybe we don’t get enough sleep, maybe that’s it, but you know what? Having a baby turns you into someone else.’

  ‘Turns who?’

  ‘Lizzie. Me too, probably. I just never sussed any of this would ever happen. You see kids in the park. You see kids on the beach. You see them in the fucking Mothercare catalogue. And it all seems so … I dunno … simple. And you know what? It isn’t.’

  Winter nodded, surprised by the admission. Suttle never moaned, never complained, never revealed a flicker of self-doubt. That was the way he coped. That was what had taken him to D/S and would doubtless push him further still. The guy was tough as well as honest.

  ‘It’ll pass,’ Winter said. ‘It’ll get better, easier. Everything always does. Time, son. Give yourself time.’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. It’s just that …’ Suttle shook his head, leaving the thought unvoiced. His glass was nearly empty. Winter was watching him carefully.

  ‘You want another one?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Thanks.’

  The two men sat in silence for a while. To Winter at least it felt companionable and somehow necessary. Back at the start of the year, increasingly alarmed by his boss’s behaviour, he’d made a private decision to find an escape hatch and bail out of the Mackenzie empire. Bazza had become too volatile, too cocky, too erratic. Like many rich men, he seemed to be living in a bubble of his own making. He thought that money and power and influence had put him beyond reach. In this, to Winter’s certain knowledge, he was wrong. Reckless decisions would one day come back to haunt him, and when that happened Winter knew he had to be gone.

  He’d shared this conclusion with Suttle, knowing that his young protégé would regard it as a key to all kinds of investigative mischief, and in this he hadn’t been wrong. Within days Suttle had delivered an intelligence file on Martin Skelley to be used as Winter saw fit. In one sense this was an open invitation for Winter to rejoin the forces of law and order, albeit as an informant and provocateur, a pawn in the bigger game of entrapping his boss. In another, far more interesting as far as Winter was concerned, it marked the start of a path that would finally lead him to a safer place. Hantspol, he knew for a fact, would do anything to bring Mackenzie down.

  ‘He’s there for the taking, son.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bazza.’

  He explained about his latest caper, the bid to stitch up Pompey North and send the city’s favourite son to Westminster.

  Suttle looked shocked. ‘As an MP?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You mean get himself elected?’

  ‘Yeah. As far as Bazza’s concerned, there’s nothing that money and mouth can’t achieve. These days, fuck knows, he’s probably right. Either way, it’s gone to his head. He’s got himself an agent. He’s putting a campaign team together. He’s even worked out a policy or two. This, as I keep telling him, is going to cost a fortune, but the twat never listens. He just assumes the money’s there. Happily, he’s wrong.’

  ‘Happily?’

  ‘He’s vulnerable, son. He’s like a kid. The politics thing is a must-have. He wants it. He needs it. As far as Bazza’s concerned, the money looks after itself.’

  ‘How much are we talking? For this campaign?’

  ‘A lot.’

  ‘But he’s a rich man.’

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  ‘And you’re telling me he’s wrong?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s got assets coming out of his ears – property, businesses, whatever – but a lot of this stuff looks really dodgy. Take Dubai. We’ve got huge exposure, all on borrowed money, and you know what? The market’s collapsed. Down 40 per cent in a year. Do the math, son. The guy’s fucked.’

  ‘No more toot?’

  ‘Skelley had it all. As you know.’

  ‘That wasn’t my question.’

  ‘Then no. The cupboard’s bare. That’s why the guy’s there for the taking.’

  Suttle nodded, brooding on the implications. One of the reasons he’d made a name for himself in Intelligence was his ability to see a pattern in events and turn it to his own advantage.

  ‘I need to know about this Euro-warrant,’ he said at last.

  ‘No way.’ Winter shook his head.

  ‘Then why bring it up?’

  ‘Because you need to be sure about motivation.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Mine. Grassing up Bazza isn’t something you’d do lightly. There has to be a reason.’

  ‘Good point.’ Suttle had the ghost of a smile on his face. His one-time mentor was as sharp as ever. ‘So where do I go next?’

  ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘OK.’ Winter bent forward in the chair, abandoning his glass. ‘For my money we play it long. Bazza wants me to sort Skelley. Skelley is a top face. I’ve read that file you gave me. Bazza hasn’t a clue what he’s getting into. Best, says me, to first try and find the funds elsewhere.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Like Montenegro. We’ve got 10 per cent of a big fuck-off development in a place called Bicici. The rest is owned by a Russian guy. The way I hear it, he might be happy to buy us out. I start negotiations. I get him on the hook. I’m looking at decent money. The election’s getting closer. Then Brown’s away to the Palace or wherever he fucking goes, and the election’s kicked off, and guess what? The Montenegro deal falls through. By now, in Bazza’s little head, he’s got one foot in Parliament. He’s nearly there. All he needs is a whole whack of money to make it happen. So guess whose door I’m knocking on …’

  ‘Skelley’s.’

  ‘Exactly. By now Baz is dribbling big time. He wants Pompey North so bad he could practically eat it. That’s when he starts being very silly indeed. And that’s when we take him.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘We.’

  Suttle smiled again. He could see the logic. It was neat. It was devious. And it might even work.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s cool.’ Suttle’s smile turned into a frown. ‘The election’s months away. Next year probably. April or May.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s what I mean by playing it long.’

  ‘But what about the arrest warrant? What happens if someone comes knocking on your door?’

  ‘You sort it.’

  ‘You mean some kind of indemnity?’

  ‘Yeah. Protect me. Keep the fuckers off.’

  ‘Th
at’s not easy.’

  ‘No, but it’s not impossible either.’

  ‘And what would you want after that?’

  ‘Money. And somewhere to live. And maybe a new ID. Standard deal. Yeah?’

  Suttle conceded the point. Winter watched him toying with his drink, swirling the last of the Stella around the glass. Decision time, he thought.

  ‘So …?’

  ‘Fuck knows. It’s not me who’ll be calling the shots. You’ve been there. You know the way it works. People like Parsons and Willard – they’re the ones with the exposure.’

  Winter nodded. Det Chief Supt Geoff Willard was Head of CID. He’d tried to nail Mackenzie on a number of earlier occasions, and each time he’d failed.

  ‘He’s still interested? Willard?’

  ‘Of course he is. Mackenzie behind bars sends the message of his dreams.’

  ‘So why wouldn’t he buy in?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t trust you.’

  ‘Ah …’ Winter nodded. ‘And how about you? Do you trust me?’

  ‘Of course not. But I understand you. And that makes a difference.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know when you’re lying.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Of course.’ Suttle offered him a weary smile. ‘Most of the time.’

  Lizzie was in the bath with Grace by the time Suttle finally got home. He could hear the splash of water from upstairs and the muted gurgle that his daughter made when she was in a sunny mood. He crept up the stairs, armed with the placatory bottle he’d bought in the offie round the corner. A decent Rioja. Lizzie’s tipple of choice. And, as it happened, Faraday’s too.

  Up on the narrow landing Suttle paused. He could feel one of the floorboards shifting under his weight. They’d only moved into the tiny terraced house a couple of months ago and he still had to find time to get a carpet down. The bathroom door was an inch or two open, and through the crack he could see his wife blowing bubbles for the baby. Lizzie was small-boned and neat and moved with a precision and quickness that had always stirred him. Regular jogs along the nearby seafront had quickly shed the extra stone or two she’d put on during pregnancy, and only last night she’d announced that she was back at the weight she’d been when they first met. Preoccupied with events at the Bargemaster’s House, Suttle had let the news slip by him. Time to make up.

  Easing the door open, he stepped quietly into the bathroom. Grace saw him at once, her tiny face creasing into the big rubber grin she saved for moments like these. Lizzie stiffened, aware of another presence in the room, and when her face came round Suttle realised he had even more ground to make up. Then the alarm in her eyes gave way to relief and she reached up for him.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she said. ‘Bastard.’

  Later, after Suttle had put the baby to bed, they opened the bottle. Lizzie appeared to have forgotten all about the earlier conversation on the phone. A couple of mates had been round for a bit of a catch-up. She hadn’t seen either of them for months and they’d made a huge fuss of Grace before beating a tactful retreat at bath time.

  Suttle was busy at the stove. He wanted to know more about the surprise callers.

  ‘Megan and Andy. Megan’s still at the News. Andy used to work there but chucked it in. At least that’s what he says.’

  ‘You think the man lies?’

  ‘I think he’s not the kind of guy that really fits. He’s awesome in all kinds of ways – really bright, really cluey – but he hates all the corporate stuff and doesn’t bother to hide it. Even the News must have noticed in the end.’

  Suttle had never heard of these people. Even married, both he and Lizzie tended to hang on to their own sets of friends. Paul Winter, oddly enough, was one of the few people they shared.

  Suttle scraped a dice of onion and garlic into the frying pan. It was all too easy to imagine the conversation with Megan. Newsroom gossip. Stories that hadn’t worked. Who was screwing who. Lately, he’d begun to sense that Lizzie couldn’t wait to get back.

  ‘You miss it, don’t you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You miss it badly?’

  ‘Badly enough to bore Megan shitless about how lucky she is.’

  ‘Maybe she feels the same about you.’

  ‘I doubt it. She and Andy aren’t getting on. You could see it. The guy fascinates me. I’ve never met anyone … I dunno … so shameless. He’s impatience on legs. Whatever he’s thinking, it’s all over his face. She obviously bores him stiff. Pity, really. She can be really sweet.’

  ‘So what’s he up to now?’

  ‘No idea. I did ask but he’s always full of bullshit. I think he views unemployment as a career opportunity. The big novel? Some new twist on social media? The trillion-dollar website? Either way, he’s lucky Megan’s still earning. Which is probably why he’s hanging in there.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Exactly. Are you getting the picture here, Mr Chef?’

  She stepped across with the bottle and gave him a kiss. Suttle abandoned the stove and held her for a long moment. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he’d always loved the snubness of her nose and the way she cropped her hair. In certain lights, like now, she looked about twelve.

  ‘Friends?’ he murmured.

  ‘Always.’

  Over supper he told her about J-J. He described breaking the news about his dad’s death and showed her the mime he’d used to try and soften the blow. When he told her that J-J and Ulyana were due down tomorrow to try and pick up the pieces, she offered to do whatever she could to help. Suttle wasn’t quite sure how this might work, but he loved the generosity of the gesture and the fact that she obviously cared. She’d only met Faraday on a couple of occasions, but both times she’d come to the same conclusion. Now, halfway through another bottle they’d found, she said it again.

  ‘He needed mothering. He needed a bit of a hug.’

  ‘Yeah? You think so?’

  ‘Definitely. The guy was all over the place. He needed looking after.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Suttle emptied his glass. ‘Maybe it’s a man thing.’

  Lizzie said nothing. Then she pushed her plate away, got to her feet, extended a hand and nodded towards the stairs.

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Chef.’

  That same night Winter dreams about Brett West. He remembers the morning Bazza drove him across to Southampton Airport. He pictures the little charter jet waiting for them on the apron in front of the terminal building. Mackenzie has already dispatched Westie to Malaga with instructions to keep a low profile and has now laid hands on a professional hit man from south London called Tommy Peters to tidy the situation up. As Bazza’s enforcer, Westie has shown a real talent for hurting people but he’s also overstepped the mark once too often. Mackenzie has no patience for that kind of liability. Hence the presence of Tommy Peters.

  A hired Mercedes van is waiting for them at Malaga Airport. Winter has yet to figure out exactly what’s to come. They drive into the city and then take the coast road north. Beyond the town of Rincon de la Victoria the van hooks a left and climbs through the suburbs. High in the foothills overlooking the sea, Winter is dropped outside a half-finished bar in a housing development still under construction. It’s late afternoon but still very hot. There’s no one around. Bazza gives him a holdall. Inside, in high-denomination notes, is £25,000. The money belongs to Westie, Bazza says. Make sure he counts it.

  Winter remembers the cloud of dust as the van takes Bazza and Tommy Peters and couple of other guys away. He walks into the bar. The place smells of cement dust. Nothing’s finished. He takes a seat at a table and waits. After a while an old man appears and gives him a drink. Later still Westie turns up. He’s brought his girlfriend. She’s German, very pretty, nice to talk to. Her name is Renata. She’s some kind of artist. Westie is still counting the notes when Tommy Peters reappears. He’s carrying a gun. He shoots Wes
tie twice, both times in the head.

  In the dream Winter is inches away from Westie when Peters pulls the trigger. He can feel the warm spray of blood. It’s all over his face, his hands, his shirt, everywhere. The girl is on her knees, trying to help Westie. She looks up. She sees the gun levelled at her own head. She’s pleading for her life. Winter can taste his own shock, his own fear, the terrible realisation that he doesn’t belong here, that he should never have been any part of this slaughter.

  He turns to Peters, tells him to put the gun down, tells him to spare the girl. Peters gives him a look, eases him out of the line of fire, moistens his lips, half-closes one eye. Winter looks at the girl. He wants to say sorry. He wants to be forgiven. But he knows that will never be possible. Of Bazza, needless to say, there is no sign.

  Winter woke with a tiny gasp. After a moment or two, totally lost, he realised he was trembling. Then he recognised the shape of his bedroom window in the throw of light from the promenade below and dimly made out the silhouette of the stuffed leopard at the foot of the bed. Bathed in sweat, still trembling, he reached out for the comfort of Misty. He wanted to wake her. He wanted to tell her about the dream. But there was no one there.

  Chapter six

  PORTSMOUTH: SATURDAY, 15 AUGUST 2009

  For the first time for months Suttle slept in. Normally, to keep the peace, he was first up for the baby. This morning, a Saturday, it was Lizzie who slipped out of bed at the first tiny cries from the baby’s room next door. Making his way downstairs, hours later, he found Lizzie dribbling feed into the goldfish bowl while Grace, strapped in her rocker in front of the TV, tried to make sense of the morning cartoons.

  ‘You’re a star,’ he mumbled, giving her a kiss.

  ‘Your boss phoned.’

  ‘Parsons?’

  ‘Yeah. She wants you to give her a ring.’ She looked at him a moment, then gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Enjoy.’

  Parsons was at home. She was about to descend on Sainsbury’s but first she needed an update on Operation Castor. She was having lunch with the Head of CID and it seemed Det Chief Supt Willard wanted to be absolutely sure.