The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means, my friend, that we are - all of us - the prisoners of our past. Of who we are. Of where we come from. Of where we grow up. Me? I’m a stubborn old Pole. You?’ He smiled, shepherding Mackenzie towards the hall.

  Beside the front door he paused. Well over six foot, he towered over Mackenzie. Bazza still wanted a decision, a guarantee, an assurance that Dobroslaw would back off, but the big Pole shook his head. That look of faint reproach again. He’d expected something better, something that Bazza had clearly failed to even comprehend. He extended a hand, which Bazza ignored. Then he smiled and patted him on the arm.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Mackenzie. And good luck with your little trophy.’

  Bazza was incandescent. Winter had rarely seen him so angry. He’d trekked over there in good faith. He’d been nice to the man, polite. He’d never once suggested that only scum, real scum, make themselves a fortune from the bodies of country girls from the depths of God knows where. He’d said nothing about white slavery or pimping off helpless toms or any of the other stuff that bastard immigrant arsewipes seemed so good at. And for all that he’d got nothing. Absolutely fuck all. Except a virtual declaration of war.

  ‘Little trophy? What’s that about? Is this guy life-tired? Does he know what he’s saying? Does he understand the way things work in Pompey? Or do we have to tell him?’

  Winter thought it best to let the storm pass. It didn’t. Back in Portsmouth, early evening, Bazza insisted on summoning a council of war.

  A handful of his closest mates turned up, crowding into the den he used as an office, faces Winter recognised from the 6.57 days and from a thousand run-ins since. These were middle-aged men now, blokes Bazza had trusted all his life. One or two had drifted, with various measures of success, into full-time crime. Others ran garages or pubs. One had made a fortune in the scrap metal business. But all of them were bonded by a loyalty deeper and richer than words could properly express. They’d fought together on football terraces all over the country. They’d exported Pompey violence abroad, to shopping malls and café-bars, and - on one famous occasion - to a pre-season friendly in Honfleur. They’d had a laugh and made a bob or two and they still bumped into each other in pubs and clubs and certain restaurants. In the one-man corporate enterprise that had become Bazza’s life, these individuals formed a shadowy but important non-executive board of directors. He didn’t ask for their advice. They didn’t have a vote. But - especially on occasions like these - he wanted their support.

  And he got it. Each time a new face appeared Bazza would go through the afternoon’s events again, and each time he did Winter sensed that the real issue became a little clearer. This wasn’t about jet skis any more, or the Trophy, or even the fact that it was Mark’s precious memory at stake. No, this was about insult, about restitution, about respect. No one was going to patronise Bazza Mackenzie. Least of all some Polish heavy with more money than manners.

  Heads nodded round the room. There were growls of agreement when Bazza said that they had to hurt this man, attack his business empire where it was most vulnerable, take lots of money off him, expose him for what he really was. Honour called for a settling of accounts and if Dobroslaw was really up for a serious ruck then that was exactly what he was going to get.

  At this point Westie arrived. He had an instinct for violence. He knew when trouble was brewing, when the scent of blood was in the air, and it was he who suggested an expedition to Southampton that very night, mob-handed. They’d seize Dobroslaw, bung him in the back of a van, beat the crap out of him, dump him somewhere visible, where no scummer cunt could miss him. The second bottle of Black Label was nearly empty by now and it was only a couple of the wiser heads who managed to prevent Bazza from strapping on his fighting boots and heading for the motorway. We need time, they said. We need to plan this thing. We need to be a bit clever.

  There followed a detailed discussion of tactics. Some options were tabled, rubbished, dismissed. Others won general approval. By now there was absolutely no question that a kind of war had been declared, and Winter, watching, could only marvel at how easy it had been to put a match to the tinder that was Bazza Mackenzie. Willard had been right all along. The guy was like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Create the right situation, feed in the right prompts, and this was someone who might easily self-destruct.

  Marie sensed it too. Winter, ducking out to get himself a glass of water, found her in the kitchen. She wanted to know what was going on. She’d only just got back from a night out with some girlfriends. She’d counted the cars in the driveway, recognised the odd coat in the hall, been aware of the angry growl of voices from the den beyond the big lounge. She’d spent the last year or so trying to soften Bazza’s rougher edges, trying to leaven their social life with a sprinkle of middle-class friends, trying to turn twenty million quid of narco-loot into a legitimate business that would keep her husband out of trouble. Now this.

  ‘It’s mad, love.’ Winter could only agree. ‘Baz has fallen out with a villain in Southampton. It happens that he makes his money from trafficked toms. There are blokes in there suggesting we bust all his brothels and set these women free. Can you imagine that? A bunch of tarts from Minsk? Wandering round some shopping centre in their py-jams? These people should join the Animal Liberation Front. It’s the purest bollocks.’

  Marie didn’t see the funny side. She’d lived with Bazza for more than a decade. She’d seen him in these moods, knew what he could do when the red mist descended, knew how easily he could chuck away everything they’d managed to build together. The word she used was ‘wanton’.

  ‘He’s like a kid,’ she said. ‘On the one hand he can be really clever, really shrewd, really cluey. People he respects, people who know stuff that he doesn’t, he’ll listen to. He’ll take advice. He’ll be patient. He’ll see the advantage in some investment or other and realise that it’s going to take a couple of years at least for the thing to come good and he’ll be quite happy about that. Then something happens, something like this, and it all goes out the window, the whole lot. Why? You tell me. Maybe it was the white powder. Maybe he went over the top when he was younger. He’s just so …’ she found a glass for Winter ‘… volatile.’

  ‘But that’s his charm, love. That’s why you married him. That’s why you’re still here.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Definitely. The day Baz puts his feet up is the day it’ll all fall apart.’

  ‘That won’t happen.’

  ‘I meant Baz putting his feet up.’

  ‘I know you did. It’s just not in his nature. Sometimes I wish it was. But you’re right, Paul, life would get very dull.’ She nodded towards the den. ‘So what are we going to do?’

  The session broke up past midnight. Marie, who’d retreated upstairs, returned to find Winter and her husband sitting alone in the lounge, watching a DVD of Apocalyse Now on the huge plasma screen. Martin Sheen was going slowly insane in the bedroom of a Saigon hotel. Bazza, noticing his wife at last, patted the sofa.

  ‘Paul’s told you about this bloke Cesar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He told you what happened this afternoon? Over at his place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Completely out of order. Total fucking liberty. We’ve got to sort it, love. Else it’ll only get worse.’

  ‘Why?’ Marie at last sat down. ‘What’s any of this got to do with us?’

  ‘What?’ Bazza seized the remote. In his excitement he hit the wrong button. Instead of muting the sound, he turned Martin Sheen green. ‘Shit.’ This time he hit Pause. There was a moment of silence, broken by Marie.

  ‘I’m asking you what’s so important about this man. It’s a difference of opinion, Baz. He doesn’t agree with you. In the real world stuff like that happens all the time. You ride it. You ignore it. You get on with the rest of your life.’

  ‘Ignore it? I’m not hearing this. The geezer knew exactly what he was doing. He’d
probably written himself a fucking script. He’d probably spent half the afternoon rehearsing. He knew exactly what he was about. He wanted to wind me up. And you know something? He succeeded. Big time.’

  ‘So leave it. Walk away. Spare him the satisfaction.’

  ‘What satisfaction?’

  ‘Of taking it any further.’

  ‘You think he wants that?’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’

  ‘But you think he knows what he’s in for? What we can do to him?’

  ‘Of course he does.’

  ‘Then he’s a nutter.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Isn’t that something to think about?’

  Bazza was brooding. His hand found the remote. Martin Sheen came to life again. The scene cut to helicopters swooping down onto a jungle landing zone. Winter turned the volume down.

  ‘There might be another way, Baz.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s that?’

  ‘I go and have a talk to some mates. Like you mentioned this afternoon.’

  ‘From the Filth, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Winter began to think aloud. He could raise interest in Dobroslaw’s organisation, feed in some intelligence, supply a few addresses, whet their investigative appetites. With a bit of a nudge, he said, the blokes in Major Crimes might organise a hit. It wouldn’t happen tomorrow or even the day after, but if Bazza was really interested in settling accounts then an operation like this, properly mounted, could give the Pole all kinds of grief.

  Bazza thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.

  ‘Not the same,’ he said. ‘Not the same at all. You don’t get it, mush, just like Marie doesn’t get it. This is personal. This goes way back.’

  ‘How can it? You never even met the guy until this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s not the point. He’s a Scummer. He’s taking the piss.’

  ‘He’s not a Scummer. He’s a Pole.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘And he’s heavy, Baz. He’ll have protection. You know how many Poles there are in Southampton? Twenty thousand. These people are tribal. They stick together. Do you really want that kind of war? That kind of aggravation? When everything else is going so sweetly?’

  ‘Sweetly, bollocks. He insulted me. Little trophy? Arsehole …’

  ‘Listen, Baz, what you’ve got to understand here is—’

  ‘No mush, you listen. The guy’s a disgrace. Plus he’s an arsehole. I don’t care how many friends he’s got, how many bloody relatives. Two hundred grand? Three hundred grand? Half a million? Who cares, mush?’ He was grinning now. ‘We’ll fucking have them all.’

  Winter went home. It was late but the Friday-night traffic still clogged Albert Road. Winter sat in the back of the cab, eyeing a line of half-naked girlies weaving along the pavement, wondering what else he could possibly do. There’d been just a chance that Bazza might have swallowed the line about some kind of CID operation but in his heart of hearts Winter knew the plan was a non-starter. In the shape of today’s developments, Willard was halfway to his dream result: not just Bazza Mackenzie on the verge of doing something extremely silly, but probably Dobroslaw as well. Not just one major criminal potted, but two. Would the Head of CID risk losing an outcome like that? Fat chance.

  The traffic began to move again. Minutes later, thoroughly depressed, Winter was riding the lift at Blake House. Letting himself into the apartment, he saw the message waiting for him on the machine. It was Brodie. She wanted him to give her a ring.

  Winter punched in her number. Since his last encounter with D/I Parsons, she seemed to have become the channel for passing updates back to Willard.

  ‘Paul … ?’

  ‘Me.’ Winter could hear the blare of a television in the background.

  ‘You went to Southampton? Checked the guy out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what’s happening?’

  Winter hesitated a moment, staring at the blackness of the Harbour.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said at last.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Zilch. Bazza was nice as pie. They both were. Babes in the Wood. Real love affair.’

  ‘I’m not with you. You told me yesterday it was a turf thing. You said they’d be at it. Ferrets in a sack. Paul, you practically guaranteed it.’

  ‘Yeah … well …’ Winter stifled a yawn ‘… it turned out I was wrong.’

  Twenty

  SATURDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER 2006. 07.56

  Up early, Jimmy Suttle was on the road to the New Forest by eight o’clock. He’d cleared the trip with Faraday first thing, phoning him on the mobile. Rick Bellinger, the Southampton social worker, had recommended a visit to the Tile Barn activities centre. Positivo was leading a weekend residential for at-risk kids. This was the same outfit that had accommodated Dermott O’Keefe. Odds-on, some of the staff would know the lad.

  Faraday, to Suttle’s surprise, had registered barely a flicker of interest. Of course Suttle should go. The budget could wear the overtime and there might be some value in talking to other people about O’Keefe. He, in the meantime, was off to London. Suttle, assuming the visit was in connection with Billhook, had asked why.

  ‘Family,’ Faraday had grunted. ‘I won’t bore you with the details.’

  Now, Suttle followed Bellinger’s instructions. Tile Barn was bigger than he’d thought, a fourteen-acre spread on the outskirts of Brockenhurst. He parked at reception and showed his warrant card to the woman behind the desk. He’d phoned the Positivo number last night and had been given a contact name for the weekend residential. Jane Plover.

  ‘She’s in the classroom right now. You might like to wander across. They’re due for a coffee break in about half an hour. I’m sure you could talk then.’

  The classroom was less than a minute away. Already, through the open windows, Suttle could hear the yelp of young voices. He paused outside the door. Through the big wired-glass panel he could see a couple of dozen kids. The desks had been pushed back against the walls and the kids had formed a big circle, all facing inward, hands interlinked. Various members of staff were patrolling the edges of the circle while a tiny woman with a savage haircut clambered onto a chair and clapped her hands. Some of the kids were giggling. Others looked lost. The woman on the chair shouted an instruction and the circle swayed and buckled while the kids tried to work out what to do.

  Some kids pulled, others pushed. One girl fell over. But not once was there a break in the chain of hands. Back on her feet, the girl wanted to blow her nose. Suttle slipped into the classroom in time to hear the woman on the chair telling her to go ahead. As long as she didn’t break the chain. The girl looked dumbstruck, then shrugged, ducking her head and wiping her nose on her neighbour’s T-shirt. A boy across the circle shrieked with laughter, pointing at the girl.

  ‘Snotface,’ he yelled.

  Everyone started laughing. Including the girl.

  ‘You broke the circle,’ she yelled back. ‘Dickhead.’

  By the time they stopped for coffee, the game was over. The challenge had been to reverse the circle, facing out rather than in, without breaking the ring of hands. A quarter of an hour of wrestling, fierce argument and general mayhem had come to an end with a whispered clue to the biggest of the kids. He and his neighbour had hoisted their linked hands, inviting the couple opposite to lead everyone else through. By now the circle had acquired a life of its own, sinuous, ever-changing, and the sight of twenty kids trying to squeeze each other through this tiny human arch had reduced everyone to helpless laughter. Which, according to Jane Plover, was the whole point of the exercise.

  ‘These are kids who’ve never learned to help each other,’ she explained to Suttle. ‘Most of them are scared stiff of physical contact and even more frightened of making a fool of themselves. It’s all down to laughter in the end. If you can make people laugh you can make them do anything.’

  Suttle was impressed. The next game was under way, under someone else’s sup
ervision. A rubber gym mat had been cut into four squares. The classroom had become the Arctic Ocean. Kids crowded onto each of these tiny ice floes. The trick was to somehow manoeuvre the ice floes so they re-formed the gym mat and thus made a bigger, safer ice floe. This demanded a great deal of synchronised shuffling on the polished wooden floor. The game was called Killer Whale. More teamwork. More hilarity.

  ‘You mentioned Dermott O’Keefe on the phone.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is he in trouble again?’

  ‘I’m afraid he might be.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking why?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Suttle restricted himself to the Mercedes. There was no absolute proof, he said, but there was strong evidence that Dermott had nicked it. More to the point, he seemed to have disappeared.

  ‘That’s strange. He was here only a couple of weekends ago. We run a Junior Leader programme. He did so well in the summer we invited him back.’

  Dermott, she said, had taken everyone by surprise. His truanting record and steadily growing list of offences had prepared everyone for yet another teenage tearaway. Here was someone, on paper at least, who appeared to have turned his back on society. Yet in the flesh Dermott had been bright, quick-witted and only too happy to submerge himself in the general clamour. His interpersonal skills, she said, were exemplary. He had very few problems with the other kids. The only slight quirk in his character that anyone had spotted was a tendency to occasionally wander off.

  ‘He likes his own company,’ she said. ‘But in his case we view that as a plus.’

  Suttle remembered the social worker’s story about the four a.m. paper round. His own space, he thought.