Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  He walked over. For someone her age, maybe early forties, she was in excellent nick: sleek legs, neat arse, flat stomach. Mackenzie reached for the controls and wound the speed down. Gill frowned and slowed her pace. Then the machine came to a complete halt and she opened her eyes.

  ‘Awesome.’ Mackenzie threw her a towel. ‘Drink?’

  The bar was upstairs. Mackenzie drank a bottle of Becks while Gill showered. When she finally turned up, she settled for a spritzer.

  ‘You look knackered,’ she said.

  ‘I am. Totally wrecked.’

  ‘You should try some of this.’

  ‘That’s a woman’s drink.’

  ‘I meant exercise.’

  ‘Really? You think I’m sat on my arse all day? Jesus …’ He called for another Becks, no glass.

  They talked about the campaign. Gill, who’d already penned a long feature piece for the News some months ago, was fascinated by the way all the schemes and dreams were now playing out. The election, at long last, was upon them. The public could be unforgiving. Mistakes would begin to matter.

  ‘Too right.’ Mackenzie took a suck at the Becks. ‘So are you still shagging Andy?’

  Gill laughed. After what she’d heard about Mackenzie, nothing came as a surprise.

  ‘I thought we were talking about Pompey First?’

  ‘Well? Are you?’

  ‘No. Not right now.’

  ‘Heartbroken?’

  ‘I miss him, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘Of course it fucking is.’

  ‘Then I’ll give you a serious answer. That guy was the fuck of my life.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘I dunno –’ she reached for her glass ‘– but probably yes.’

  Mackenzie took his time digesting the news. He could think of lots of nice things to say about Andy Makins but this wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Surprised?’ Gill was watching him carefully.

  ‘Yeah. Tell you the truth, I’d never have thought he had it in him.’

  ‘But he does, Baz. In spades.’

  ‘Great.’ Mackenzie lifted his bottle in salute. ‘Here’s to Andy.’

  Gill ignored the toast. She wanted to know whether Bazza was keeping a diary.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we might be interested.’

  She explained about her editor on the News. The special supplement, in her view, would offer a post-election chance to draw breath, part the curtains and show the public how the campaign had really worked.

  ‘You really think I’ve got time to keep a fucking diary?’ Mackenzie liked the bit about parting the curtains.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Then who does the grafting?’

  ‘Me.’ She smiled at him. ‘We’d have to touch base pretty regularly, probably every day. You give me five minutes of your precious time and I can sort the rest.’

  ‘I bet you can.’ Mackenzie loved her fingernails. The way she shaped and varnished them reminded him of Misty. ‘So do I get time to have a think? Make a decision?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Then the answer’s yes.’ He tipped the bottle again. ‘Game on?’

  It was nearly ten by the time Mackenzie finally got home. He’d made a detour to the hotel, collecting his schedule for tomorrow’s appearances, which seemed to include a brief speech at a dog-walking class in the depths of Buckland. Buckland was inner-city Pompey, the real thing, and when he asked Kinder what he was supposed to say, Kinder rolled his eyes. The kids were worse than the dogs, he said, so watch your back. Mackenzie laughed, heading out of the hotel’s front entrance. Makins happened to be leaving as well, and Mackenzie paused for a moment beside the Bentley, wondering whether he ought to offer the boy a lift, but then decided against it. The kid had enough going for him. He could fucking walk.

  A two-minute drive took him to Sandown Road. Mackenzie let himself in and headed for the kitchen. The moment he opened the door, he knew he’d made a big mistake. He should, after all, have binned all the nonsense up at the Mountbatten.

  Stu Norcliffe, his son-in-law, was asleep, his bulk filling the tiny two-seat sofa. Ezzie was perched on a stool, watching something inane on the big plasma. Of Marie, ominously, there was no sign.

  ‘She’s gone to bed, Dad. You ought to wake her.’

  Mackenzie went upstairs. There were a couple of clean sheets neatly folded on the landing outside one of the spare bedrooms. He stared at them for a moment, then walked into the master bedroom. He could hear the splash of water from the en-suite. Marie was washing her hair, oblivious to his presence. He watched her for a moment or two. Beautiful.

  ‘It’s me, Ma. Got held up.’

  Marie turned the shower off and began to dry her hair. She told him to go downstairs and get Ezzie to put the kettle on. She’d join them in a minute.

  ‘I don’t want tea.’

  She shot him a look, stepped very close, lifted her head, wrinkled her nose.

  ‘You’ve been drinking. Great.’

  ‘Big deal.’ He asked her about the sheets in the hall.

  ‘They’re for you. There’s a duvet on the bed already and spare blankets in the wardrobe. Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  Downstairs, Mackenzie roused Stu. He had a bottle of decent malt in one hand and a couple of glasses in the other. Stu, still groggy, said yes to the malt. Ezzie was still watching the telly.

  Marie appeared in her dressing gown. She wasted no time on small talk. She’d spent most of the day on the phone to the accountant. This was a call, she said, that she should have made months ago. Probably years ago. Even now, even after God knows how long on the phone, she’d no idea where the money had gone.

  ‘Hard times, love. There was a banking crisis. You probably heard.’

  ‘But there’s nothing left, Baz. Spain? France? Montenegro? Dubai? It’s all gone, it’s all mortgaged. And for why? Because you couldn’t stop buying, because you had to get bigger and bigger, because you’re like a kid, because you’re so bloody greedy and so fucking stupid you had to have more all the time.’

  ‘More is good.’

  ‘More is the kiss of death, Baz. More is what’s got us into this mess. You can’t just keep building and building and you know why? Because in the end the thing will just fall over. Are you with me, Baz? Do you understand that?’

  Mackenzie shrugged. The first malt had gone down rather nicely. He helped himself to another and offered the bottle to Stu. Stu shook his head.

  ‘She’s right, Baz,’ he said. ‘I’ve gone over the figures. I’d no idea it was so bad.’

  ‘This is short-term, mush. Things change all the time. A couple of months and we’re in the clear.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘So how does that work?’

  ‘It’s a question of bottle, Stu. Some people have it and some don’t.’

  Mackenzie seemed to think this settled the argument. Ezzie had other ideas.

  ‘Mum says our houses are on the line.’

  ‘Mum’s wrong. I’ve got that sorted.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Mackenzie nodded. He’d negotiated a bridging loan only this morning. Thanks to Marie it would take longer than he’d like to lay hands on the cash, but the deal was done and there wouldn’t be a problem.

  ‘So who’s this guy Cesar?’ Marie again.

  ‘A business associate. A friend of mine.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘Home entertainment. He also rents vans.’

  ‘And you think a hundred thousand will be enough?’

  ‘Ample. Like I say, it’s short-term, a month tops.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘After that –’ Mackenzie smothered a yawn ‘– you can all come up to Westminster and I’ll show you around.’

  Marie closed her eyes and squeezed
them very hard. Lately she’d begun to suspect that her husband was off his head. This was the clincher.

  ‘You’re mad, Baz,’ she said quietly. ‘I could get you sectioned.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I mean it. This whole political thing, you know what it is?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s a wank, Dad.’ This from Ezzie. ‘The whole thing’s a wank. Even Stu thinks so.’

  ‘Stu?’ A hint of something dangerous had crept into Mackenzie’s voice. The question was a challenge, a test.

  ‘I think you’re overstretched, Baz. Maybe Pompey First wasn’t such a clever move.’

  ‘You’re a London cunt, mush. You wouldn’t know the first thing about Pompey.’

  ‘Yeah, but even so—’

  ‘Even so, bollocks. You listen to me, son. There are some people in this town who know a thing or two about loyalty, about sticking with something through thick and thin, about getting a fair deal for the little guys that get screwed by the likes of you, and you know what? I’m one of them. That’s where Pompey First comes from. That’s why I get up in the morning. That’s why I’ve just spent most of my fucking evening playing Mr Nicey-Nicey to a bunch of netball witches over in the Mountbatten who might, just might, give me their precious fucking vote. That’s commitment, son. That’s the kind of graft that built this city. Not that anyone ever fucking listens.’

  He tipped his glass to his throat and swallowed the contents in one. Then he was gone.

  Marie told Ezzie to turn the telly off. No one wanted to break the silence. Finally it was Stu who asked about Cesar.

  ‘Just who is this guy?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue, my love.’ Marie glanced at her watch. ‘I was hoping we might find out.’

  Paul Winter finally made contact with Marie past midnight. He was in a hotel near Heathrow. He was sorry he hadn’t returned her calls.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Marie explained what she’d learned from the accountant. None of this was news to Winter.

  ‘We’re fucked, my love,’ he said. ‘Excuse my French.’

  ‘As bad as that?’

  ‘Probably worse. I’ve been trying to explain the facts of life for the best part of a year. In the end you just give up. It’s like talking to a child.’

  Marie mentioned the bridging loan Bazza appeared to have negotiated. She didn’t know the details, but her husband seemed to have pledged the last few bricks of the house not already held by the bank.

  Winter wanted to know more about the loan. Where was it coming from? Who had Bazza tapped up?

  ‘His name’s Cesar. He’s a Polish guy. As far as I know, he’s local.’

  ‘Cesar Dobroslaw?’

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘He’s a gangster, my love. Worse than that, he’s a Scummer, lives in a huge pad over in Rownhams. Baz must be desperate.’ Scummer was Pompey-speak for anyone who lived in Southampton. Not a compliment.

  ‘Does he have the money, this Cesar?’ Marie asked.

  Winter said yes. Dobroslaw was a wealthy man. The last time Winter had tried to take a proper look, one of his goons had kicked the shit out of him in a Portakabin beside Southampton Docks.

  ‘Kicked the shit out of you?’

  ‘Me. Dobroslaw’s no gentleman. He settles arguments the way Baz does. Birds of a feather, my love.’

  Winter asked about the terms of the loan, knowing Dobroslaw would love to warm his hands at a bonfire of Mackenzie’s assets. Marie said again that she had no details.

  ‘He’ll screw us –’ Winter yawned ‘– and he’ll enjoy every last second.’

  Marie fell silent. It had been a very long day, deeply depressing, and every conversation she had seemed to make things worse. At length she roused herself and asked Winter what he was doing in London.

  ‘You don’t want to know, my love.’ He was laughing again. ‘Tell Baz I’m on the case.’

  Chapter twenty

  WARSAW: THURSDAY, 8 APRIL 2010

  Winter was at the big central railway station in Warsaw by mid-morning. The place was awash with scarlet-faced drunks and there wasn’t a single signboard that made the slightest sense. Finally he located the ticket office and bought himself a single to Lublin.

  The train left within twenty minutes, clattering out through the suburbs of Warsaw on a day of filmy sunshine sharpened by a biting easterly wind. To his relief, he had a compartment to himself. He’d been up since four in the morning and by the time they hit the open country he was asleep.

  The ticket collector woke him up a couple of hours later. It turned out he’d spent some time in the UK visiting relatives in Norfolk and spoke decent English. He also lived in Lublin, and when Winter showed him the address Irenka had emailed him for Pavel Beginski, he drew a pencilled map. The bar, he confirmed, was called Krzywa Wieza. He’d never been there himself, but a friend of his knew it well. Apparently it had changed hands recently and gone downhill, since when his friend, along with the other regulars, had taken their money elsewhere.

  Winter thanked him and pocketed the map. He took a cab from Lublin station and sat back as the driver eased his way through heavy traffic, heading for the city’s industrial quarter. The road was flanked by high-rise flats. Smokestacks loomed beyond. On the plane coming over, flicking through the Polish airline magazine, he’d read about the unforgettable hive of cobbled streets that made up the Old Town. Lublin, it seemed, was bidding to become the next must-visit Euro-destination. Fat chance.

  The cab dropped Winter in a side street off a major road that funnelled traffic out of the city. It was raining by now, and Winter ducked into the shelter of a shop across the road. The Krzywa Wieza, as far as he could see, was off the plot. The windows had been boarded up and a new-looking chain and padlock secured the front door. It was a two-storey building, flaking grey render, and the curtains in the two upstairs windows were pulled tight. If this was the key to Operation Gehenna, thought Winter, the prospects were deeply unpromising.

  He lingered for a moment, wondering what to do. The shop had the look of a neighbourhood convenience store. If he was after local knowledge, this might be the place to start.

  The woman behind the counter spoke no English. Winter had bought a copy of this morning’s Telegraph at Heathrow as a prop for the video session with Beginski. He got it out of his holdall and carefully wrote Pavel Beginski’s name across the top of the paper, big capital letters, and pointed at the property across the road. The woman fetched her glasses and squinted at the name. Then she nodded.

  ‘Tak.’

  ‘He lives there?’ Winter had no idea how to mime a question like this. ‘Is he there? Now?’

  The woman didn’t understand. She came round from behind the counter and took Winter out to the street. Then she pointed at one of the upstairs windows.

  ‘He does live there?’

  The woman looked confused again, then closed her eyes and laid her head against her flattened hands.

  ‘He’s asleep?’

  ‘Tak.’ She looked pleased. ‘Sleep.’

  She stepped back inside the shop, leaving Winter on the street. He put the paper back in the holdall and crossed the road. Whorls of fading graffiti decorated the render at street level. There was no bell beside the door. He rapped hard on the wooden panel and stepped back, looking up at the curtained windows. Nothing. He did it again, louder. Still no response. He was about to head down the road and try and find some way of circling the property when he became aware of two men crossing the street. They wore plain clothes and were young, crop-haired, tidy. Cops, Winter thought.

  One of them spoke a little English. His leather jacket was zipped up against the chill of the wind. He asked what Winter was doing.

  ‘I’ve got a friend.’ Winter nodded at the bar. ‘I’m paying a visit.’

  The rain was harder now. The guy with the leather jacket indicated a black Skoda parked across the street. ‘Come,’ he said.

  Wh
en Winter resisted the pressure on his arm he found himself looking at a laminated ID card. He was right. Policja.

  The car smelled of cheap tobacco. Winter sat in the back.

  ‘You’re English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Passport?’

  Winter handed it over, then stared out at the rain while the guy in the leather jacket checked the airline tickets Winter had slipped inside and then flicked to the back page of the passport and carefully wrote down the details. When he’d finished, he bent to the radio. The conversation went on for longer than Winter might have expected. He didn’t understand a word but assumed they were checking him out against various databases. Thank God for Karl Sparrow, he thought.

  The woman who’d helped him had appeared in the doorway of the shop. She was looking at the car and seemed to know what was going on. When she realised Winter was watching her she disappeared again.

  The cop in the leather jacket had finished with the radio. He returned Winter’s passport and then pointed at his bag. Winter handed it over. The cop unzipped it, peered inside. The sight of the camera didn’t seem to trouble him. He zipped up the bag again and passed it back. Then Winter heard a metallic click as he released the locking mechanism on the rear door.

  ‘Goodbye,’ the cop said. ‘Have a nice day.’

  Out in the street again, Winter was aware of the cops watching him as he walked away. He turned up the collar of his suede car coat, spotting a café at the next corner. He ducked inside, glad of the warmth, and pointed at the coffee machine.

  ‘Big.’ He made an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘With sugar.’

  Marie authorised transmission of the house deeds to Dobroslaw’s solicitor shortly after lunch. In a brief early-morning encounter with her husband she’d flatly refused to do anything until he told her a great deal more about this sudden addition to their social circle.

  ‘He’s not a mate, Ma. It’s not like that.’

  ‘That’s what Paul said.’

  ‘You’ve talked to him?’

  ‘Of course I have. At least he gives me answers.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said the guy was a gangster. And he said he’d once had Paul beaten up.’