‘We thought so, yes. In fact Portsmouth looked a prime candidate. At least one of the comprehensives down there had been a failing school and results across the board weren’t wonderful.’
‘I have a note that Mallinder described himself as “excited”.’
‘He was. That’s right. In fact we all were. But then the Department started having second thoughts.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Because there turned out to be difficulties in Portsmouth. To put it bluntly, we had to back off.’
‘And was Mallinder happy with that?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘So he withdrew his offer?’
‘It lapsed.’ The smile was weary. ‘Just like his membership. ’
Naturally, she said, they’d tried to table alternative projects in other cities across the country but Mallinder hadn’t been interested. As far as he was concerned, it was Portsmouth or nothing.
‘Do you know why?’
‘I understand he was planning to move down there.’
‘To live, you mean?’
‘Yes. And under those circumstances I can understand the logic of his position. He said he wanted to be hands-on, which is of course what we try to encourage. The press just love knocking the Academy programme but the real driver, believe me, is the kids. They respond so well. In fact they love the idea. In education that kind of enthusiasm is hard to find. Especially at secondary level.’
Faraday had no interest in discussing the philosophy of education. He wanted to talk about the Ministry of Defence. Had Mallinder ever raised the issue of access?
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Did he ever ask for meetings with ministers or senior civil servants within the MoD?’
‘Not to me, no.’
‘He never mentioned the Estates Department?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever ask anyone else, to your knowledge?’
‘I’ve no idea. I work for the DfES. Defence isn’t my field.’ She was beginning to get visibly irritated. ‘I don’t see where any of this is going, Mr Faraday. What point are you trying to make?’
‘I’m suggesting that Mallinder’s money may have come with strings.’
‘Strings?’
‘Yes. That he may have wanted some kind of deal. He’s a property developer. He’s active in Portsmouth. The Ministry of Defence occupy a lot of land in the city. In the right hands some of that land could be extremely valuable. So here he is, suddenly offering you a large sum of money, and I’m simply wondering why. It’s the kind of question we tend to ask ourselves. I’m afraid it comes with the job.’
‘I’m sure.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘The rest of this morning is looking like a nightmare. This has been absolutely fascinating but I don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you. So …’ she forced a smile ‘… are we through?’
Winter ducked out of Waterloo Station, deciding to walk the half-mile or so to the Savoy Hotel. Bazza had phoned him first thing in a state of some excitement. A woman called Katherine Brodie had been in touch by e-mail. She seemed to run some kind of media agency. She’d picked up rumours of a planned jet ski extravaganza somewhere on the south coast, and she’d be interested in further details. It would be a pleasure, she’d said, to buy Mr Mackenzie lunch.
‘At the Savoy bloody Grill.’ Bazza had been laughing. ‘And she’s in the chair.’
Winter had never been to the Savoy. He’d logged on to the website, lingering over the virtual tour, and now he tried to spot the terrace overlooking the Thames as he crossed Hungerford Bridge. A maze of streets off the Strand led him to the front entrance. A uniformed concierge, sweating in the heat, directed him to the restaurant. At midday he was half an hour early so he found himself a perch in the neighbouring bar, shook open his copy of the Daily Telegraph, and turned his attention to the court reports.
‘Mr Winter?’
Katherine Brodie was a lightly tanned woman in her mid-thirties. The grey two-piece suit gave her a slightly severe air but she had a warm smile and lips that Winter had last seen on a porn queen. Bazza, he knew at first glance, would love her.
They went through to the restaurant. A table for three awaited them beside the window. Winter settled himself into the chair with the best view and debated whether to stick to San Miguel or go for something else. Already he felt totally at home.
‘I’m having a spritzer. You, Paul?’
Winter settled for a large gin and tonic. Mackenzie, he explained, would be joining them as soon as the last of his morning meetings permitted. With luck, there might still be some food left by then.
She smiled at his little joke and then sat back as Winter outlined their plans for the Mackenzie Trophy. He’d got as far as the weekend of the race itself when she raised a query.
‘I’m not quite clear, Paul. You’re planning for an entry of maybe a couple of dozen. These are top riders from all over the world. You’re meeting their travel expenses, providing accommodation, hospitality, engineering support, all that, as well as prize money and ancillary logistical costs? So just who’s paying for all this?’
Winter had detected the faintest American accent. He said it was early days. Conversations were ongoing. Both sponsorship and media rights had yet to be finalised.
‘Conversations with whom?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal the details. As I’m sure you’ll understand.’
‘Of course. But you’re close to some kind of deal?’
‘Obviously.’ Winter shot her a wolfish grin. ‘You know how these negotiations go. Never shoot the rabbit till you see the whites of his eyes.’ He’d no idea what had prompted this image. Neither, it was plain, did she.
‘You say early days.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s September. You’re talking June next year? That’s a blink away. That’s like tomorrow. Ambition’s a wonderful thing, Paul. So is optimism. I not only applaud you, I wish you luck.’
Winter knew he was struggling. Bazza would have swamped the conversation by now, buried this delicious woman alive under a ton of bullshit.
‘Let’s talk about you,’ Winter said. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
She nodded and apologised at once for not explaining her interest earlier. She’d just returned from the States, she said, and was still decompressing after a couple of years running a sports consultancy out of a suite of offices in Southern California. She’d had lead input into a number of high-profile events, chiefly in the surfing and powerboat arenas. She’d dealt with major sponsors. She’d negotiated worldwide media rights, not just TV and sell-through DVD but print and magazine as well. The Mackenzie Trophy already sounded like a page lifted straight from her own CV. The synergies were spooky.
Winter grinned. Synergies? He hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
‘So how come you heard about us?’
‘A friend in the jet ski world phoned me. He races super stocks. This guy’s exceptionally well tuned in. He said he couldn’t think of a comparable event and you know what? I suspect that’s true.’
The waiter approached with the drinks. Her hand settled lightly on her glass. A Cartier watch. A single silver ring, third finger, right hand.
‘Cheers.’ Winter lifted his gin and tonic in a toast. ‘Happy days.’
They touched glasses. The smile again.
‘You know my problem?’ she said. ‘It’s excitement. A project like this, it sells itself. The right quality sponsorship, the right media deals, the right marketing strategy, and you’re looking at an event that’ll turn into an instant classic. Let’s talk venue. Tell me about Portsmouth.’
At last Winter felt firm ground beneath his feet. He explained about the history of the place, all those wars, all that prize money, all those matelots sailing home in triumph after hammering the French. He described the Harbour, HMS Victory, world-class museums in every corner of the dockyard. Then he moved on to the venue itself, Spithead, the biggest stage in the world, a stretch of w
ater tailor-made for an event like this.
To be honest, he said, Portsmouth had always raised a bit of a smile on anyone who really knew it. The place had always been full of character but a bit rough, a bit scuzzy. Lately, though, money had been flooding into the city. He told her about the glitzy new shopping developments, the harbourside apartment blocks, the marinas packed with ocean-going yachts. And now, he said, the council had found the bottle to fund the jewel in Pompey’s crown, the Spinnaker Tower, five hundred feet of soaring concrete, a fantastic peg on which the city could finally hang its hat.
Winter was aware that these images were running away with him, that he should throttle back a little, but he realised as well that he didn’t care. Maybe it was foolish to neck double gins on an empty stomach. Maybe he should have had a spot of breakfast before he left. Too bad.
He was still improvising plans for the project launch party - lashings of champagne in the viewing gallery at the top of the Spinnaker Tower, men in black on abseil ropes outside the tinted windows with boxes of Milk Tray for the ladies - when he became aware of Bazza Mackenzie standing at his elbow. He’d heard the lot. Every single word.
‘Brilliant, eh?’ he couldn’t take his eyes off Katherine Brodie. ‘Took months to dream all that up.’
By half past two the lunch was over. Brodie had settled the bill, accepted a kiss on both cheeks from Bazza, and disappeared towards her waiting taxi. Bazza watched her leave the restaurant, turning heads as she picked her way between the tables. The expression on his face told Winter that the Mackenzie Trophy had just acquired a new recruit.
‘She’s perfect.’ Bazza was signalling for another bottle of Chablis. ‘Fucking wonderful.’
‘We know nothing about her, Baz.’
‘We don’t? Those aren’t eyes in your head? She wants us. She needs us. You can see it. You can practically taste how bloody eager she is. You’re telling me we turn down an opportunity like this? She’s got the contacts, Paul. She’s got the knowledge. We need to start thinking pretty fucking hard about what we’re going to do, and for my money she’s the one to help us.’
Winter studied the card she’d left on the table. K-MAX had an office address in E17. Number 43a Lavender Road. She’d described it as a pit stop, handy for where she was living, a temporary arrangement to tide her over until she had a chance to sort out a sensible deal on something a little more central. On the back of the card she’d scribbled her mobile number. Any time, she’d told Bazza. Just call.
‘Admit it, mush. She talked a good fucking war.’
Winter had to agree. On a speculative basis, for a percentage cut of the sponsorship money, she’d promised to scope the most promising media deals and report back. As Winter had suspected she’d seen through his bluster before Bazza’s arrival, but by the time they were all tucking into the main course none of that seemed to matter. She’d taken a good look at them both, correctly concluded that they were out of their depth and offered to help.
In this respect alone her judgement had been absolutely faultless, and as she and Bazza bent ever closer, discussing the price of hospitality marquees and the need for a comprehensive insurance package, Winter had recognised all the hallmark talents of a seriously gifted negotiator. She’d played Bazza like the child he was. She’d taken this shiny new toy of his and put it on the topmost shelf of all. Only with her help would he ever be able to reach it.
And the ploy had worked. By the end of the meal Bazza was offering her free office accommodation at his seafront hotel and even a cash bonus if she’d concentrate her efforts exclusively on their project. Both of these offers she sensibly turned down, but this, of course, had simply spurred Bazza to make fresh efforts to lock her away, and as she rose to leave Winter had awarded her a silent round of applause. Two decades in the interview suite, using these very same skills, had given him an appreciation of exceptional talent. As a working detective, he’d concluded, this woman would be world class.
Another bottle of Chablis arrived. Bazza didn’t wait for Winter’s glass to be charged.
‘Get on to her, mush.’ He took a swallow of the Chablis. ‘Talk to Ezzie. Tie her down to a fucking contract.’
The meeting at New Scotland Yard was scheduled for three o’clock. Faraday and Suttle signed for their passes at the front desk and made their way to the bank of lifts. The investigation into the funding of political parties was being run from a couple of offices on the fourth floor.
The cash-for-honours investigation was under the command of a Deputy Assistant Commissioner, and on the phone Faraday had got the impression that he’d be present at this afternoon’s meeting. As it turned out, though, he’d been called away and Faraday and Suttle found themselves in the hands of a slim, impassive D/S with a taste for wildly patterned ties. He led them into a glass-walled cubicle at the end of the big open-plan office and departed for the coffee machine.
Faraday took a seat, steadying his briefcase on his lap. The cash-for-honours investigation, as far as he could gather, had been running for at least a year, triggered by the suspicion that New Labour apparatchiks were breaking the law that governed political donations. A couple of high-profile arrests had put the investigation onto the front page of every national newspaper and there were rumours that the investigation was about to knock on the Prime Minister’s door. Jonathan Mallinder had evidently come to the attention of the detectives exploring the extent of possible corruption and Faraday had been promised a look at his file. It lay on the desk before him. It wasn’t very thick.
The D/S returned, juggling three coffees. His name was Alex Kitson. He slipped into the chair behind the desk and apologised again for the absence of his boss. Scarcely a day went by without another crisis demanding his instant attention. Cash-for-honours, he said, had become the fox in the Westminster hen coop. There were chickens everywhere, and none of them had heads.
It was a nice image. Kitson’s face was as deadpan as ever but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. Or maybe satisfaction.
‘Your Mr Mallinder …’ He reached for the file. ‘Shame, really. What exactly happened?’
Faraday briefly outlined the facts. Mallinder had been the victim of an extremely professional killing. Forensics, for once, had failed to come up with a single piece of worthwhile evidence. Enquiries were ongoing, and a couple of leads might offer a way forward, but the key issue remained motive. Who’d want to organise a hit like this? And why?
Kitson nodded. Mallinder, he said, had been one of hundreds of names to come to the squad’s attention. As far as straight donations were concerned he’d never qualified for interview because the only cheque he ever wrote had been comfortably below the declarable limit. But his more recent interest in the City Academies programme was rather different.
‘You talked to him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because in the end there were no grounds for interview. But in a way it’s more complex than that. When this thing kicked off, the focus was on the loans issue. Here you’ve got rich guys putting large sums of money in the pot. You have to declare donations like that and some of them don’t want publicity. Neither does New Labour. And so those donations become loans. Loans aren’t declarable, as long as they’re genuine. That means a commercial rate of interest, and given the state of New Labour’s finances, that’s going to be at the high end, four or five per cent above base. Are they paying that rate? Very good question. And are these even loans at all? We wait to be convinced.’
‘How does all this link to Mallinder?’
‘Obliquely. Earlier this year he came up with two and a half million quid. That’s a lot of money. Unlike other big donors, he was very picky about the terms. He wanted five per cent above base rate and he wanted a repayment schedule that gave him the right to demand the capital back at any time of his choosing. The New Labour people weren’t at all keen. That’s why they tried to steer him towards the City Academies programme.’
‘A
nd would that be a money loan?’
‘No. A straight grant, a donation if you like, though the people at the Department of Education refer to it in terms of a stake. If you bung New Labour two and a half million quid for a new City Academy you become a stakeholder. You also move to the top of the list when it comes to honours though naturally they all say it’s not that simple.’
‘And Mallinder?’
‘Mallinder was a strange bird. For a start, like I say, he seemed very nervous about his capital. He didn’t want to lose it. In fact he wanted to be sure he could have it back just as soon as he needed it. That told us that the source of the money - his money - was a bit rocky.’
‘But if he bought into a City Academy, he’d lose it all anyway. Isn’t that the case?’
‘Exactly. That’s what we thought. And it’s true. So that posed us a question. Just why would he suddenly become Mr Bountiful? Kiss goodbye to two and a half million quid?’
‘Because they’d promised him something.’
‘Maybe. Either that or he thought there was some kind of deal on offer.’
‘Like what?’
Kitson abandoned the file. This was speculation now, by no means evidenced, but in his view there might be plausible grounds for thinking that Mallinder had got himself the inside track on estate negotiations with the Ministry of Defence. The negotiations related to land at Tipner on the edges of something called the Gateway Project.
‘A kind of land-for-academy swap.’ It was Suttle. He was grinning.
‘Exactly.’
‘And you’re saying this isn’t evidenced?’
‘Not at all. But that doesn’t mean Mallinder didn’t think it could happen. There are two keys here. One is intent, Mallinder’s intent. The other is the timeline.’
He returned to the file. Mallinder had come up with the money in February. Within weeks he was discussing the possibility of a City Academy in Portsmouth. A month later, in early May, the money had been abruptly withdrawn.
‘But that was because there were difficulties in Portsmouth,’ Faraday pointed out.
The Price Of Darkness Page 17
