‘What time did he jack it in at work?’
‘Around half five. It was daylight. When he drove out onto the Burrfields Road the car had gone.’
‘The G.A. Day place is across from the allotments.’
‘Exactly.’
‘With Salcombe Avenue on the other side.’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘Did this bloke get a make at all?’
‘Yeah. He’s a bit of a car buff. Says it was an Alfa Romeo.’
‘Did he get a look at the reg plate?’
‘Afraid not … but here’s the good bit. One of the civvy indexers has a boyfriend in Traffic. Apparently a patrol got involved in a collision last night. They rear-ended a Peugeot up towards Hilsea. It seems they were chasing a car reported nicked and the Peugeot kept getting in the way. The boyfriend swore the target was an Alfa.’
Suttle nodded. The coincidence was interesting, little more. Thatcher hadn’t finished.
‘The traffic guys got details of the Peugeot driver,’ he said. ‘Take a guess.’
The indexer had left a number for her boyfriend in case anyone wanted to talk to him. Suttle returned to the Intelligence Cell and lifted the phone. The P/C’s name was Grant. He was downstairs in Traffic, preparing to go out on patrol. Suttle took the stairs two at a time.
Grant had been in Pompey for less than a year. Wednesday night he and his oppo had taken a heads-up from the force control room about a sus vehicle theft. He said someone had rung in about a couple of guys acting suspiciously on Southsea seafront. The car involved was down as an Alfa.
‘How did they know?’
‘No idea. You’ll have to check.’
‘So what happened?’
‘We clocked an Alfa in Stubbington Avenue. It was waiting to come out from Randolph Road. We’d taken the call literally minutes beforehand. Time-wise it looked quite promising.’
He described backing into Randolph Road, then setting off in pursuit.
‘The problem was the car in between, the Peugeot. Fair play, the guy couldn’t let us past because it’s too narrow with all the parked cars up there but he had at least a couple of chances to pull over when we came to intersections and he never took them. Then, out of nowhere, bam, he hits the brakes. We had no chance. He must have known that.’
‘And this was Mackenzie?’
‘Yeah. I didn’t know him from Adam but my oppo told me about him later. Bit of a local face? Would that be right?’
Suttle nodded. A bit of a local face. Too right.
‘And the Alfa?’
‘Gone.’
‘So they might have been in convoy? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Easily. Though this guy Mackenzie wasn’t having it. Kept threatening us with his brief. Talked about doing us for harassment.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Are we through? Only my oppo will be waiting. ’
Suttle returned to his office. The shift supervisor in the control room at Netley checked the 999 log for last night’s activity. The call about the Alfa from Southsea had come in at 22.21. The caller had left a name and number. Dermott Callaghan, 02392 348567. Suttle lifted the phone again. For a long minute nothing happened. Then came an Irish voice, old, uncertain. Suttle introduced himself, explained the circumstances, said he’d like to come round.
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Why?
‘To say thank you, Mr Callaghan.’
He took an address, grabbed a pad and collected his Impreza from the car park at the back. Southsea seafront was five minutes away. He parked across the road from the parade of converted hotels and boarding houses, and located the block of flats. Callaghan was only too happy to buzz him in.
There was no lift. Suttle took the stairs to the fourth floor. Callaghan was waiting for him on the top landing. He must have been eighty at least, a bent figure in a soup-stained cardigan with smoker’s fingers and wisps of snow-white hair. The effort to make it as far as the landing showed on his face. He was holding on to the banisters, fighting for breath.
The flat smelled of roll-ups and a weak bladder. Suttle began to wonder how often this old guy got out. Beside the window was an armchair surrounded by a litter of open newspapers. Across the room a new-looking TV was tuned to the evening news. There was a phone on the floor beside the armchair. A nearby ashtray was brimming with fag ends.
‘I do the horses most days.’ He’d sunk into the armchair. ‘Keeps me out of mischief.’
Suttle glanced down at the newspapers, all of them open at the racing pages, runners ringed in green.
‘And you ever get lucky?’
‘You’re talking to an Irishman, son. Luck doesn’t come into it. Me and horses …’ He started to cough. A box of tissues at his elbow. Balls of Kleenex at his feet.
‘So how do you lay hands on your winnings?’
‘Brett.’
‘Brett?’
‘Yeah. A lovely man. He collects for me, and does lots else as well.
Kind as the day is long, that fella.’ He nodded at the view. ‘Phoning your lot was the least I could do.’
Suttle stared at him then stepped across to the window. He could see his own car parked across the road, then the wide spaces of the Common, green after all the rain.
‘You’re talking about the car last night?’
‘Sure. It was Brett’s. That’s why I knew it was an Alfa. Black thing.
Light of his life, it is.’
‘What’s Brett’s surname?’
‘West. Mr West to you.’
‘What colour is he? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Not at all, son. He’s black. Just like that car of his.’ He paused, looking up at Suttle, his eyes milky with age. ‘You’re telling me you’ve found it? Only I’d like to tell him myself.’
Suttle phoned Faraday as he clattered down the stairs towards the street. ‘Boss? Where are you?’
‘In the car park. Off home.’ A pause. ‘Why?’
‘Something’s come up. I’ll be back in five.’
He drove fast, one eye on the mirror. He knew Brett West from way back. Brett West was the heavy who’d been waiting for him outside the club in Gunwharf the night he’d been in there with Misty Gallagher’s daughter. Brett West was the guy who’d stepped into Suttle’s path and pushed him backwards into the arms of two other blokes before breaking his jaw. Brett West worked for Bazza Mackenzie.
Faraday was back in his office by the time Suttle returned to Major Crime. One look at his face told Suttle he’d have preferred to have this conversation on Monday.
‘My son’s come down early.’ He nodded at the phone. ‘What’s up?’
Suttle explained about the 999 call, the Alfa on the seafront, the traffic guys colliding with Bazza Mackenzie minutes later. Suttle had never believed in coincidence. Neither did Faraday.
‘So what are we saying?’
‘The guy who phoned it in saw two blokes by the Alfa. He’s old.
His eyesight’s crap. We’ve got no detail on these people but he knows the car. He thinks he remembers another car beside it on the seafront, a motor he hadn’t seen before. He says it was a lighter colour. The traffic guy says the Peugeot was sky blue. We can put Mackenzie in the Peugeot, no problem.’
‘So who was driving the Alfa? Assuming you’ve got this right?’
‘Someone who works for Mackenzie.’ Suttle at last sat down.
‘Someone who knew there was a good reason to swift the bloody thing away.’
‘Winter?’
Suttle nodded, said nothing.
There was a long silence then a brief knock at the door before Gail Parsons appeared. She was wearing a raincoat. She was off home for the weekend.
‘Come in, boss.’ Faraday said heavily. ‘Join the party.’
Chapter twenty-four
FRIDAY, 17 AUGUST 2007. 21.35
The search warrant on Brett West’s seafront flat was sworn within the hour. Suttle prepared the paperwork and
Faraday drove it to the Old Portsmouth address where the duty magistrate and his wife were hosting a dinner party for friends. He and Faraday conferred in a small study at the front of the house. Faraday explained the circumstances. Attempts to find Brett West had come to nothing. They had his address and his mobile number from the old man at the top of the block. West wasn’t answering the door, neither did he respond to calls. There were reasons, therefore, to conclude that he might have fled the city.
‘Or simply gone away?’
‘Indeed. But we have witness evidence of an Alfa in the vicinity of Salcombe Avenue on Wednesday night.’
‘The Danny Cooper murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re saying West drives an Alfa?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the target car involved in the incident last night?’
‘An Alfa.’
‘I see.’ His hand reached for the proffered pen.
Faraday, armed with the warrant, drove back to the seafront. Parsons was already there, parked across the road. The duty call-out Scenes of Crime team were due any minute from Cosham and the DCI wanted to brief them before they started on West’s flat.
Faraday parked up and walked across to Parsons’ Audi. A chill in the air seemed to promise more rain and he paused for a moment to catch a pair of swans flying low towards the black silhouette of Southsea Castle.
Parsons got out of the car. Suttle was with her.
‘Joe?’ She was looking eager, buoyed by the prospect of a breakthrough.
Faraday was gazing up at the apartment block across the road. West lived on the third floor, number 11. Scenes of Crime would need to scoop up everything obvious, first priority, before they began the search for forensic evidence that might tie West to the Cooper killing. A full intelligence search could come later, once they’d finished.
‘Mobes, paperwork, anything related to travel plans, notes by the phone.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘If we’ve got this thing right, my guess is he’s gone already.’
‘Gone?’
‘Fled. Gatwick? Heathrow? He could be anywhere by now.’
Suttle agreed. He’d already contacted Immigration and Special Branch to run checks at both airports. As soon as he’d got a Production Order, he could start work on West’s credit cards. A transaction on an airline ticket would come up with a flight number and a destination. Assuming he’d left the country.
A flash from a pair of approaching headlights announced the arrival of the Scenes of Crime van. Faraday stepped aside as it swung into the vacant parking bay. Parsons was looking more cheerful by the minute. All we need now, Faraday thought, is Willard. Maybe she’s belled him already. Maybe she’s thinking she might yet survive as SIO. Maybe tonight’s developments might protect her from the implications of Martin Barrie’s return.
Suttle was talking to the Crime Scene Investigator as he pulled on his forensic suit. Faraday joined them, detailing what they needed from the flat. Another van was approaching - bigger, badged with the Hantspol logo. The on-call imaging specialist had driven over from Netley.
The CSI, now suited up, began to unload gear from the back of his van. He was about to cross the road with an armful of stepping plates when a black Lexus approached. It swept past the parked vehicles and Faraday caught a glimpse of the face behind the wheel as it registered the kerbside scene
Suttle had clocked it too.
‘Winter,’ he murmured with a shake of the head.
The invitation to dinner had come from Marie. She’d hoped the Aults might turn up as well but a late phone call from Belle had presented their apologies. Peter, she said, had a foul headache and was anticipating an early night. They were still with their friends in Denmead. Maybe another time.
Winter also had a problem with the invite. He’d fixed to meet a business contact for a pint at eight and wouldn’t be free until - say - half nine. On the phone Marie had broken off to confer with her husband, returning to say that would be fine.
‘Half nine.’ It had the force of an order.
Winter parked the Lexus in the street and walked round the back of the house to find them in the kitchen. Bazza had got rid of the neck brace but still appeared to be in pain. Whether this accounted for his mood, Winter didn’t know.
‘I’ve just had fucking Westie on from Spain.’ He nodded at his mobile, abandoned on the kitchen table. ‘You know how much I bunged him Wednesday night? Before he got in the taxi? Fifteen grand. That’s cash, mush, that’s moolah. And you know what he wants now? Another hundred.’
‘A hundred grand?’
‘Yeah. And I get the impression that’s just for starters. He says he’s there for good. He says he needs to buy a place.’
‘But he’s right, isn’t he?’
‘Of course he’s fucking right. But since when am I his fucking banker?’
‘Since Wednesday night, Baz.’
‘Yeah? Well fuck Westie. He can go and flog ice creams on the fucking beach for all I care. Get a proper job for once. You know what he said to me just now? When I offered him one of them apartments in Marie’s place? He said there’s no way he’s going to be tucked away with a bunch of fucking geriatrics.’
‘I don’t blame him. I was there, remember. He’d be knitting cardigans by Christmas.’
‘Very funny. You want a drink?’
He left the kitchen without waiting for an answer. Winter glanced across at Marie. She was checking something in the oven. She was obviously in the loop.
‘So what happened Wednesday night?’ Winter enquired.
‘Brett phoned. It was God knows how late - three, maybe later.’
‘And?’
‘Baz went down to the den to make some calls. Then he disappeared for an hour or so.’
‘Any idea where he went?’
‘No.’
Winter helped himself to a handful of cashew nuts from a bag on the table, wondering where the fifteen grand had come from. Bazza wouldn’t keep that kind of money at home, not with the possibility of another visit from the Old Bill.
‘You know why Westie’s off on his travels?’
‘More or less.’
‘Baz hasn’t spelled it out?’
‘He doesn’t need to. I’m not stupid. I knew it would end in tears, him and Danny Cooper.’ She sighed, closing the oven door. ‘He thought the world of the boy to begin with, gave him far too much rope.’
‘Rope?’
‘Help. Advice. Support, I suppose.’
‘Money?’ Winter knew he needed to be sure.
‘Not to my knowledge. Baz is normally quite canny that way. Not mean just careful.’ She paused, biting her lip, checking a detail in the recipe book. ‘What happened to Danny, though, is way over the top.’
Winter could only nod in agreement. He remembered Danny Cooper in his Auntie Doris’s spare bedroom. Telling Westie to get back in his tree hadn’t been clever.
‘I think it was Westie he’d upset, Marie, not Baz. Westie can be a bit literal sometimes. He didn’t like the boy at all and if Baz gave him the green light the other night, he’d just go ahead and help himself.’
‘And that’s what happened? Baz gave him carte blanche?’
‘I presume so.’
‘With no thought of the consequences?’
‘Westie? Consequences? Are you serious? The man’s a firework.
Just like Baz. I’m lots of things just now, Marie, but surprised isn’t one of them.’
‘But why? Why would Baz be so upset with the lad?’
‘It’s complicated. This is me playing the copper. Baz was shitting himself about Peter Ault. He thought Ault was likely to ask some hard questions about all the toot at the party. That cocaine came from Danny Cooper at a silly price and it wouldn’t take long to put young Danny alongside Baz. The master and the apprentice.’
‘So Baz had him killed?’
‘Baz set Westie on him. He’d done it before but now he really wanted to frighten the lad. He wante
d to make sure he’d never grass him up. But give Westie a serious grudge and if he’s in the wrong mood you’re looking at a death sentence.’
‘That’s madness.’
‘You’re right.’
Mackenzie returned with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. He was about to uncork the champagne when Winter told him to sit down. His head came up. He was scowling.
‘You what?’
‘We need to talk, Baz. All three of us.’
‘Why’s that then?’
Winter described the scene outside Westie’s flat on the seafront. Scenes of Crime. Senior CID. Faraday. The works.
‘Today?’
‘Just now, Baz. As we speak. You’ve been up in that flat of Westie’s recently? Wednesday night maybe?’
‘No.’ He shook his head.
‘Where did you meet Westie then?’
‘Sloppy Joe’s’
‘Busy?’
‘Empty. Had the place to ourselves.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’
Sloppy Joe’s was a late-night drinking club. Westie evidently went there when he fancied a night slumming it in the back streets of Portsea. No way would the owner or the bar staff do the Filth any favours.
‘So what is this?’ Bazza was still holding the bottle of Krug. ‘Anyone got the bollocks to tell me?’
Winter nodded at the empty chair. Finally he sat down. Marie too. Winter looked at them both. If ever he was to earn the money Mackenzie was paying him, it was surely now.
‘Let’s start with the Alfa, Baz.’
‘It’s been moved to a lock-up round the back of that industrial estate,’ he said at once. ‘And Barry’s the only one with a key.’
‘You’re planning to torch it?’
‘Yeah. In the end.’ He frowned. ‘So what’s with Westie’s flat?’
‘They’ll be boshing it by now, Baz. They’ll be going through it with a toothcomb. Anything he’s left - a speck of Danny’s blood, soil out of his back garden, whatever - they’ll find. They’ll be after intelligence too. They’ll want to know what’s happened to Westie, where he’s gone, how he got there, who paid for his ticket, the lot. All it takes, Baz, is a single mistake, anything that can link him to you on Wednesday night. That’s what they’ll be looking for, believe me. And if they find it, then we’re all in the shit.’
No Lovelier Death Page 31
