The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  He hung on for a moment, watching the sleek grey shape of a frigate pushing out through the Harbour narrows. A line of matelots stood at attention on the foredeck and he caught himself wondering how long they planned to be away. Just now, he thought, he’d have done anything for a sailor suit and a couple of months at sea.

  He returned to the lounge and glanced at his watch. The meeting with his Covert Ops minder had lasted no more than twenty minutes. After agreeing what D/I Parsons termed ‘the health and safety implications’ of last night’s encounter, he’d given her a brief outline of what Bazza had in mind for the Mackenzie Trophy. It was his job, he’d said, to make this spectacular happen. He hadn’t any idea what he was going to do next but he’d squared a woman on the council and he suspected that the real key lay in the media coverage.

  Parsons had written everything down and asked him when he might get the chance to nudge Mackenzie towards doing something silly. This, after all, was the whole point of the exercise, and on the face of it the sheer scale of the Trophy project might turn out to be a huge windfall. Mackenzie needed to take a risk or two. He needed some kind of incentive to abandon this new persona of his and cross the line back into active criminality. Once he’d done that, and once they’d managed to evidence it, then the Proceeds of Crime Act would kick in and they’d be able - at last - to strip him of every penny of his precious fortune.

  Winter had listened to this instruction with a heavy heart. Willard, only weeks ago, had said much the same thing. Get alongside him. Get your feet under his table. Make him trust you. And then bide your time until his guard finally drops. At that point, of course, Bazza’s brother was still alive and no one had a clue how soon an opportunity for serious mischief might turn up, but sitting in the office at the hospital Winter had been only too aware how quickly Parsons had realised the potential of Bazza’s latest wheeze. Properly managed, she’d told him, the Mackenzie Trophy could be the beginning of the end for the city’s number-one criminal.

  Properly managed? Winter had shaken his head, emphasising again the risks he was running, how clever these guys were, how shrewd. She’d nodded, agreed with him, done everything short of patting him on the head. He was doing fine. Just fine. It was a shame about the Devon and Cornwall job and she’d see to it that interdepartmental liaison procedures were tightened up, but in the meantime he was to press on with Operation Custer and take very great care not to compromise himself. For the second time she referred to the importance of health and safety, and Winter left the hospital with the phrase still ringing in his ears. This woman hadn’t turned out to be quite the clown he’d been expecting, but health and safety? Unbelievable.

  Half an hour later a taxi dropped Winter in Sandown Road. Craneswater was Southsea’s destination address for the city’s movers and shakers. Broad tree-lined avenues led down to one of the quieter stretches of seafront and many of the handsome Edwardian villas enjoyed views across the Solent towards the Isle of Wight. Bazza had been in this kind of company for three years now, rubbing shoulders with captains of industry, professional high-flyers and a discreet circle of local friends he liked to dub his ‘fellow businessmen’.

  In social terms Craneswater was light years away from the Copnor terraces of Bazza’s youth, but to the surprise of many in the city he seemed to have made the transition with effortless ease. His wife, Marie, hosted neighbourhood barbecues. His daughter, Esme, occasionally turned up for informal tennis tournaments on the courts at the bottom of the road. Bazza himself had even lent his new motor cruiser to an ex-Navy commander who wanted to take his kids to Cowes for the weekend. Some day soon, thought Winter, he’ll be joining the fucking Rotary Club.

  Standing on the pavement, Winter was aware that the party was in full swing. Beyond the high garden wall he could hear laughter, music and the clink of glasses. Number 13 was the biggest house in the road, a beautifully proportioned Edwardian property in repointed brick with big double bays, tall sash windows and a recently added balconette built into the roof. Quite how Bazza had managed to smuggle this feature through the planning process was anybody’s guess, but Winter was brought to a halt by the sight of purple balloons and a huge banner hanging from the balconette’s chromium and smoked-glass screen. Happy Birthday, Marie, went the greeting on the banner. Forty-Five Up and Still a Gem. This, it turned out, was a birthday party. Why hadn’t Bazza told him?

  The electronic security gates were open. Winter squeezed past a line of SUVs in the drive and paused again to take stock. Beyond the swimming pool a grassy bank fell away to a sizeable lawn. Guests were milling around everywhere and there was a small army of kids mobbing a bouncy castle in the corner. Brett West was there too, obviously charged with keeping them from serious injury, and Winter stepped briefly inside the house to leave the coat on a chair by the front door. Back outside again he caught sight of Esme helping herself to a plateful of food from a spread that occupied a line of tables beside a flower bed, and he ducked his head as she turned to look for company. Then he felt a hand on his arm.

  ‘Paul … Great you could make it, mate. Get one of these down you.’

  It was Bazza. He had a bottle of Krug in one hand and three champagne flutes in the other. Winter helped himself to a glass, steadying it while his host did the honours.

  ‘You never told me, Baz.’ Winter was smiling at a plump woman dressed as a priest. She was heading their way.

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘That this was fancy dress.’

  ‘It’s not, mate. This is Caroline. She’s our local vicar. Caroline … meet Paul Winter. Good friend of ours.’

  Winter found himself shaking hands. Caroline, it seemed, was a regular visitor to Number 13.

  ‘We’re having a raffle later, a charity thing. Caroline’s doing the honours. The way it works, Paul, is you stick something in the pot, anything, doesn’t matter what, and then Caroline and I have a little auction. Worked a treat last time we did it, eh Caroline?’

  Caroline nodded then made her excuses. She’d spotted the heart specialist who lived down the road. He was a mad keen jogger. She needed advice on preparing herself for the Great South Run. Bazza watched her make her way up towards the house.

  ‘Fantastic woman.’ Bazza was beaming. ‘Salt of the fucking earth.’

  He steered Winter through the mill of guests towards his wife. She spotted him coming and Winter had the distinct impression she’d been expecting this encounter. She was in conversation with a couple of other women and they stepped back as the two men arrived.

  ‘You remember Paul?’

  Marie nodded and Winter was surprised by the warmth of her smile. She was a tall, blonde woman who took some care to keep herself in shape and middle age had barely touched her Scandinavian looks. The last time Winter had met her was a couple of years back, in the depths of winter, and on that occasion she’d scarcely spared him a word. Now, tanned and relaxed, she wanted to know how he was getting on. Winter grinned at the question. How much time did she have?

  ‘All afternoon, Paul. Let’s get you some food.’

  Winter allowed himself to be led to the spread at the edge of the lawn. The other two women seemed to have disappeared. Marie piled a plate with rice and brochettes of scallops and lobster, and found a newly opened bottle of Krug to replenish Winter’s glass.

  ‘You’re spoiling me.’

  ‘You deserve it. Here, have a napkin.’

  Something in her voice told Winter that Marie knew a great deal more than he might have expected. The thought of Bazza having a moment’s regret about last night’s episode was a joke but maybe she took a different view. Marie had always had a hand on Bazza’s tiller. Indeed, she’d been largely responsible for bringing them to Craneswater.

  ‘Great do.’ Winter raised his glass. ‘Happy birthday.’

  She grinned and offered him a cheek to kiss. She smelled of sunshine and something wildly expensive.

  ‘Are you happy?’ she asked. It was a very big question. Winte
r didn’t quite know what to say.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘With Baz. With us.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘More or less.’

  ‘Must be odd, though, mustn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, a bit. Must be strange for you too.’

  ‘Christ, no. Far from it. In fact I’ve been banging on at Baz for months. We’re lopsided. We need someone like you on board. Have done for a while, if you want the truth.’ Her eyes left his face. She was looking out across the lawn. ‘Solicitors, accountants, professional people, they’re two a penny in this town. In fact we’ve adopted so many it’s becoming an embarrassment. They fight, you know. They’re like puppies. You toss one the odd bone, tickle him under the ears, and suddenly they’re all over you, the whole lot. Amazing, isn’t it?’ She laughed, turning back to Winter. ‘Then someone like you comes along and it’s all so simple again.’

  ‘Simple? How does that work?’

  ‘Because you speak our language. Because you understand the way we work, the way things really are. That’s why you and Baz get on so well. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

  It was Winter’s turn to laugh. Eighteen hours ago he’d been looking at a death sentence. Now this.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ he said. ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘No …’ She beckoned him closer. ‘I’m serious, Paul. You’re practical. You’ve got contacts. You know how to handle yourself. We need all that, though I’m not sure Baz knows how important it might be.’

  ‘Job contacts, you mean?’

  ‘Of course. And a million others.’ She paused. She had very blue eyes. ‘You know whose idea this was? You joining the organisation?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Mine, Paul. And because it was my idea it’s also my job to make sure it works, to make sure you’ve got everything you need, to make sure you’re happy. Can I ask you a straight question?’

  Looking at her, Winter wondered whether she was taking the piss. To his alarm, he decided she wasn’t.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘My daughter. Esme. She can be difficult sometimes, a bit off-putting. Do you find that at all? Only it might become a bit of an issue, you two having to work together. ’

  Winter shrugged, said it wouldn’t be a problem.

  ‘But it might, Paul, it might. A lot of people get the impression Esme doesn’t like them but it’s just her manner, that’s all. She was born awkward, that girl, and if you want the truth I blame it on us. We spoiled her to death. She had everything … the horse, the sports car, the lot. Maybe we should have spent more time with her, given her the right kind of attention, but love’s a whole lot tougher than money, isn’t it?’

  It was a good phrase. Winter said he didn’t know. He’d never had kids of his own.

  ‘Do you wish you had?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded, thinking suddenly of Jimmy Suttle. ‘I do.’

  ‘That’s a shame then.’ She sounded genuinely concerned. ‘Baz says your wife died.’

  ‘Yeah. It was a while ago. She had cancer.’

  ‘And do you miss her?’

  ‘Yeah. I do. We’d been together a long time.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry.’ Winter felt the warmth of her hand on his wrist. ‘Because personally I couldn’t think of anything worse.’

  She held his eyes for a moment then stepped aside. Caroline, the vicar, was back with a cloth bag in her hand. She was after last-minute contributions. Winter was very definitely on her list.

  Winter looked blank for a moment. Then he remembered the charity auction. His hand dived into his jacket pocket and he palmed the first thing he found into the bag. Caroline thanked him. Winter beamed back.

  ‘My pleasure. When does it all kick off?’

  The auction started barely minutes later. Bazza hoisted himself onto a wobbly chair and called the party to attention. The kids, scenting presents, abandoned the bouncy castle and gathered round. The vicar stood beside him, clutching her bag of goodies, while Bazza announced that all proceeds would be going to the 6.57 Old Lags Fund. There came a bellow of laughter from a group of overweight men beside the drinks table. Bazza silenced them with a look.

  ‘Just a joke,’ he said, trying to steady the chair. ‘Excuse my friends.’

  The auction began. First out of Caroline’s bag was a pledge from a neighbour for a trip to London to see the Rodin exhibition. The bidding was less than brisk and after a protracted attempt to get it above thirty-five pounds, Bazza pronounced himself disappointed.

  ‘Gotta do better than that,’ he warned.

  Next came two cases of Beaujolais, deliverable in November, plus a meal for two in a local restaurant called Rosie’s. This time Bazza managed to get to two-hundred and ninety pounds.

  ‘Gone.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Gentleman over there in the gay shorts.’

  The party erupted. The winning bid had come from a burly planning consultant famous for shagging other men’s wives. Bazza reached down for another envelope. An evening with David ‘Calamity’ James, the new Pompey goalkeeper, came in for more derision. As did Bazza’s own contribution, a weekend for two with a complimentary waterbed in the Royal Trafalgar. By now the auction had raised nearly a thousand pounds. A return flight to Barcelona plus a set of flamenco lessons took it comfortably over. The vicar felt around in her bag, frowned, extracted something shiny.

  She examined it from several angles, then passed it up to Bazza. Bazza gave it a single glance. He scanned the faces below him, a grin on his face.

  ‘Priceless,’ he said, holding it up. ‘One nearly new knuckleduster, barely used. What am I bid?’

  The laughter, this time, was muted. Winter heard one of the kids ask what a knuckleduster was. Someone else offered a quid. Bazza dismissed the bid with a snort. Then he beckoned to a tall figure at the back of the crowd.

  ‘A hundred quid to the bloke by the bouncy castle,’ he said briskly. ‘You got a problem with that, Westie? Only cash would be nice.’

  D/S Brian Imber headed the Intelligence Cell at the Havant-based Crime Squad, working in a small, airless office eight miles north of the city. At Willard’s insistence he’d driven down to Kingston Crescent to take charge of intelligence on Operation Billhook, joining D/C Suttle in the Major Crimes suite. Martin Barrie had also asked D/C Tracy Barber to be part of the intel team. With her Special Branch and MI5 contacts, her input might prove invaluable in assessing the strength of Mallinder’s political interests.

  Barrie had convened a meeting in his office to agree the new ground rules but this agenda had been overtaken by the arrival of a couple of dozen priority files, downloaded from Mallinder’s laptop after hard-disk analysis. These had formed attachments to an e-mail addressed to Suttle, and by the time the meeting started he’d had a chance to print and read most of the material.

  He spread the photocopied pages on the big conference table and asked everyone to help themselves, but first Martin Barrie wanted his preliminary thoughts on the files.

  ‘As I see it, sir, they confirm what we’d assumed.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That Mallinder was someone these people were after.’

  New Labour, he said, were desperate for money. They were looking at a fourteen million quid deficit after the last election but were hamstrung by new laws on political contributions which they themselves had drawn up. After 2002 every donation over £5,000 had to be made public. Most major donors expected something back for their money but were reluctant to see their names in print, especially if a largish cheque had eased them towards a knighthood or a peerage. Hence New Labour’s sudden appetite for undeclarable loans.

  ‘Where’s this getting us?’ Barrie was becoming impatient.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. This is background.’

  ‘Suttle’s right.’ It was Imber. ‘The Met are running an inquiry as we speak. If Mallinder was on their target list then we need to know why.’

  Faraday smiled. He’d rarely worked with anyone as fearle
ss or as conscientious as this man. Imber was someone who always spoke his mind. At fifty-four, all too sadly, he was rapidly approaching retirement.

  Suttle was flicking quickly through the material he’d brought with him. After the 2002 election, he said, New Labour had chased the major donors, desperate to cover their overdraft. In the view of many accountants they were technically bankrupt. Only five- and six-figure donations could get them out of the shit.

  ‘And Mallinder?’ Barrie again.

  ‘He was on their target list. D/S Imber’s right.’

  ‘You can evidence that?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s here in the files. They were bombarding him with invites, one-on-one meetings with senior party figures, a chance to sit at the top table.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘It’s not clear, sir. Mallinder was very reluctant to commit himself in print. The correspondence suggests he took up some of these invitations but nowhere is there any mention of a specific sum of money, not in respect to loans.’

  ‘But they were still after him?’

  ‘Yes. Presumably he did make them some kind of loan, probably quite modest, but that’s only something we can confirm from his bank statements. What’s probably more interesting is this.’ He picked up another sheaf of photocopies. ‘This is from a file he tagged CA01. CA, from what I can make out, stands for City Academy.’

  He paused to let everyone else catch up. Heads bent to the paperwork. Barrie glanced up.

  ‘City Academy?’

  ‘Yes, sir. New Labour describes them as independent state schools. Basically it’s a bid to get education out of the hands of local authorities. In areas where schools are failing Whitehall takes over.’

  So far, he said, a number of these schools were up and running. They cost £25 million each and Downing Street were desperate to get local businessmen involved. For sponsorship of £2 million, a donor would end up with a substantial say in the management of the school.