‘Cheers.’
‘Seriously, mush, I owe you.’ He picked up Winter’s copy of the Daily Telegraph and turned to the sports pages but quickly got bored. Sport wasn’t sport without football.
Winter gave one of the eggs a poke. ‘How’s things at home?’
‘Crap. Stu’s moping around like a five-year-old and Ezzie’s still got the hump. I tell you something, mush. Grown-ups these days are like kids. Life gives you a smack or two and you stay on your feet. I’m surprised about Stu. I thought there was more to him.’
‘He’s had a bit of a shock, Baz. Can’t be easy, all this.’
‘Yeah, but you fight it, don’t you? Get in there. Try and sort something out.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like his bloody missus for a start. He’s got a problem there. He says he’s still crazy about her and I believe him. But no way will he get Ez back by playing the wuss. He’s looking for sympathy, I can see it, but he hasn’t got a prayer. Ez doesn’t do sympathy, never has, and if Stu thinks otherwise then he must have his head even further up his arse than I thought.’
‘What’s happened to Madison?’
‘No idea. She won’t talk about him.’
‘You think he’s still around?’
‘Yeah. She makes a lot of fucking calls on that mobe of hers.’ He folded the paper and tossed it onto the windowsill. From the kitchen there was a fine view of the Spinnaker Tower. ‘Tell you something, mush.’
‘What?’
‘That Mo Sturrock’s a find. Marie says the kids have fallen in love with him.’
‘How long did he stay last night?’
‘He never went. Marie made a bed up and he kipped over. He’s the only sane one left standing. Good bloke. Fucking sound.’ He turned back from the view. His breakfast was nearly ready. ‘So what about Garfield, then? You think we’ve got all that squared away?’
Winter hoisted an egg onto a wedge of toast. He loved the ‘we’. Half a day ago Mackenzie wouldn’t listen to a word he was saying. Now, for whatever reason, they were suddenly on the same wavelength.
‘No, Baz. They’ve had a knock-back. They’ll still be keen to nail us. None of that will go away.’
‘Ever?’
Something in his voice brought Winter’s head up. He returned the frying pan to the hob.
‘That’s right, Baz. They’ll never give up.’
‘On Garfield, you mean?’
‘Of course. And what happened with Westie too.’
‘Westie’s nothing. We had the guy shot.’
‘You had the guy shot.’
‘We, mush. But the spics have got fuck all. They’re playing games. Ignore them. It’ll all go away.’
Winter knew this was bullshit. You didn’t end up on an airport watch list without good reason. He put the laden plate on the breakfast bar and found Mackenzie a stool. Baz was standing by the window, staring out. Something else was bothering him.
‘What’s the matter, Baz? What else haven’t you told me?’
‘Nothing, mush.’ Mackenzie did his best to look shocked. ‘Nothing at all.’
Faraday had organised a conference in Craneswater for ten o’clock. He picked up Suttle from his office and drove to Sandown Road. Stu’s Porsche was still in the drive. There was no sign of Mackenzie’s Bentley.
Marie met them at the door. Stu was waiting in the lounge, talking to Helen Christian. When Faraday said he wanted Esme to join them, Marie went upstairs to fetch her. She’d had a rotten night, Marie said, and was trying to catch up on her sleep.
She took an age to appear. Marie served coffee, and when one of the kids wandered in Suttle got down on the carpet with her and started leafing through her picture book. The child was finally rescued by a tall, lean stranger Faraday had never met before. His feet were bare and his long hair, threaded with grey, was secured with a twist of scarlet ribbon.
Helen Christian did the introductions.
‘This is Mo Sturrock,’ she said. ‘He’s a friend of the family.’
‘Employee more like.’ Sturrock extended a hand towards Faraday. ‘You’ve heard of Tide Turn Trust?’
Faraday nodded. In the wake of last year’s double homicide the Trust had been Mackenzie’s gift to the community, a bid to rein in the city’s wilder youth.
‘You’re part of all that?’
‘I’m down to run it.’
‘As of when?’
‘Pretty much now. Give or take.’
‘And you’ve been in the field a while?’
‘All my working life.’
‘Not fed up?’
‘Never.’
Faraday wished him luck. Esme had appeared at the door. She’d thrown on a pair of jeans and an old Pompey top that was much too big for her. Her hair was tousled and there were flecks of last night’s mascara in the pouches under her eyes.
‘I know. I look a wreck.’ She shrugged. ‘Too bad.’
Faraday asked Sturrock to leave. He waited for Marie to return with fresh coffee from the kitchen then got down to business. One or two leads had presented themselves. He was going to hand over to D/S Suttle for more details.
Suttle described the operation they’d been mounting in the villages close to Stu and Esme’s property. In the small hours of Tuesday morning, traffic on the A32, which ran the length of the valley, had been light. From four CCTV cameras they’d recovered details of every vehicle on the road between midnight and 3 a.m. Follow-up checks were virtually complete and in every case the Causeway team had ruled out any connection with the kidnap. This, said Suttle, was itself significant.
‘Why?’ It was Stu.
‘Because it suggests that the kidnappers knew the area really well. They knew where the cameras were. They knew which roads to avoid.’
‘But a decent recce would tell you that.’
‘You’re right, it would. But if we’re looking to eliminate Al Garfield then this would be a major pointer.’
Esme began to take an interest. How come Suttle knew about Garfield?
‘Mr Faraday had a long conversation with Paul Winter last night. It seems you had something of a run-in with the guy.’
‘That was Paul, not me.’
‘So it’s true?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what we assumed. In these cases we look for motive. Garfield’s wife and lawyer would have been pretty upset. Garfield himself is out on police bail. He might be looking for payback, sure, but to organise a kidnap like this and miss all those cameras he’d need more than a day to sort it. Are you with me?’
Esme nodded. For once, she glanced at Stu, who was studying his hands.
‘What else have you got for us?’ he muttered.
‘We’ve been doing checks on the Sex Offenders Register. I’m afraid it’s standard procedure in cases like this.’
‘You think this guy might be a paedophile?’ Stu looked up.
‘It’s possible. Unlikely but possible.’
‘Why unlikely?’
‘Because of the way he handled the abduction. The man we’re dealing with is extremely organised. Sex offenders tend to be more impulsive. They’ll spot an opportunity and go for it. That’s not what’s happened here.’
‘So no chance of it being a paedo?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Is that a guarantee?’
‘Of course not. There are no guarantees in these situations, Mr Norcliffe. We can’t rule anything out until the child’s back home.’
‘Christ.’ Stu stole a look at Esme. ‘This just gets worse.’
There was a long silence. When Marie asked if there’d been any other developments Suttle shook his head. Enquiries were ongoing. He’d make sure they stayed briefed. In the meantime he was still waiting for a list of clients from Mr Norcliffe.
Stu was looking at the carpet again. He didn’t react.
‘Mr Norcliffe?’
‘I haven’t done it yet. Haven’t had a chance. I need to talk to my secretary. I’m sorry.’
Faraday took over. The twenty-four-hour deadline would expire at around six. They should anticipate another call by then, and another conversation. In his experience a prior decision on the ransom always helped. If the kidnapper was still asking for ten million pounds what did Stu plan to say?
Stu at last looked up. ‘Baz and I were talking about this just now. On the phone.’
‘And?’
‘Ten million might just be possible.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. Baz needs to make some calls of course, but … yes.’
‘And you’re telling me you’re both prepared to pay that kind of money?’
‘If we have to, yes. What choice do we have?’
‘We string it out. Or more precisely you string it out. We’ll get to him in the end, believe me.’
‘But what if he starts making threats? Against Guy?’
‘Then we have to assess whether he’s bluffing or not.’
‘And if he isn’t?’
‘Then we’re in a whole different ball game.’
‘I see.’ Stu knotted his hands, staring at Faraday. ‘Have you got the call box covered? The one in Woking?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he wouldn’t be stupid enough to use it again?’
‘No.’ Faraday reached for his coffee. ‘I very much doubt it.’
Mackenzie spent the rest of the morning in his office at the Royal Trafalgar, making phone call after phone call. The last couple of years had taught him a great deal about running a successful business and it hurt him deeply to be involved in a fire sale of his own assets. Nevertheless, he told himself, it had to be done.
He started with the hotel itself. He’d bought the freehold from an old Pompey family who’d had the place for years. He’d got it for a song, leant on a series of mates in the building trade to refurbish the place, thrown a huge party at the end, and had recently turned down a handsome offer from an American-owned operation looking for prime sites in English seaside resorts. He pulled a pad towards him, drew a heavy black line down the middle of the page and scribbled the hotel’s name at the top. Beside it, a figure: £5 million.
Next came the list of Pompey houses he’d hung on to through thick and thin. These were relics from the old days when he’d first realised the potential for turning drug money into bricks and mortar. Most of them were terraced houses, deep in Fratton and Copnor, and all of them were still let to students. Chasing the kids out would never be a problem, especially not at this time of year, but property was getting hard to move in the city and only silly prices would guarantee a quick sale. From memory, he wrote down a list of addresses. They numbered sixteen. At a conservative price of - say - £150K he was looking at another £2.4 million.
After liquidating his modest residential holdings Mackenzie started on the other parts of his Pompey empire. He owned the leasehold on three café-bars in Southsea and Old Portsmouth. All the leases were new and had a minimum of eighty-six years to run. Add fixtures and fittings, plus decent trading histories, and even in this market you had to be looking at a minimum of - say - a million quid between them. On top of the café-bars, there was a tanning salon, a two-branch estate agency, a gaming arcade, two garages, a 51 per cent stake in a taxi firm, plus a fun investment in a Fratton shop specialising in exotic reptiles. Another million. At least.
Mackenzie lifted the phone and told the girl in reception to send more coffee in. For a moment, while she was still on the line, he wondered whether to add a bottle of Moët to the order but then decided against it. Already he’d got within a whisker of ten million quid. Why celebrate losing it?
Beside his UK assets, Mackenzie made another list - of holdings abroad. He’d begun with a ruined manor house in the depths of the Normandy countryside. The place was barely an hour’s drive from the ferry port at Le Havre and a Pompey builder who’d hit hard times had fallen in love with the place. The best part of three years’ work had restored the property to its former glory and Baz had taken Marie there on a surprise Valentine’s outing. She’d also adored it and so Baz had instructed the builder to hunt down similar properties, all within reach of the coast. The builder, who by now spoke half-decent French, had done him proud. Under various nominees Mackenzie now owned nine rural properties in Normandy, Picardy and Brittany. The smallest of them had seven bedrooms.
In the wake of this adventure, Mackenzie had extended his interests still further, applying the same business model to Spain. Word of earning opportunities abroad had spread amongst Pompey builders and those eager to flee impending divorces had been only too happy to sign up. To date, after a slow start, Mackenzie Abroad had twenty-seven Spanish properties on its books, not counting a separate retirement development on the Costa Dorada, which was Marie’s baby. Most of them were more modest than the holdings in northern France, and all of them were in the hands of Spanish rental agencies. It was one of these agencies that had first alerted Mackenzie to the apartment block on offer in Baiona.
Now, still waiting for the coffee, he sat back and tried to do the sums. His UK empire was big enough to make ten million quid and there was no need to liquidate the stuff abroad. All these properties, in any case, were held by nominees to put them beyond the reach of the taxman but ownership, in the end, was his. He gazed at the list and experimented with a sum or two. By the time he heard the knock at the door, he was grinning. Another £15 million. Easy.
The girl left the coffee on his desk. He sat back, gorging on a pile of Jammie Dodgers, wiping the crumbs from his jeans. He had no idea where the next few days might lead but he knew he’d have to start unravelling the Pompey end of his empire. One day, probably soon, he might do the same thing with the properties in France and Spain. These days the real money was to be made in Dubai. There were canny blokes in Portsmouth, some of them ex-6.57, making huge fortunes in shopping centres and real estate out there. All it took was a bit of patience, a lot of nerve and a tame Arab to act as a frontman. After that, all you needed was the ability to count.
Mackenzie swallowed the last of his coffee and reached for the phone. He held his business accounts at the local branch of a national clearing bank and kept a sizeable cash reserve on deposit. The sums involved entitled him to preferential treatment. After a moment or two a voice answered.
‘Terri? ’ The voice had put a smile on Mackenzie’s face. ‘It’s me.’
Stu Norcliffe took the call at half past four in the afternoon. He was sitting in the lounge in Sandown Road, staring out of the window. Faraday was on the sofa, deep in Winter’s Daily Telegraph, when the phone rang.
Stu lifted the receiver. He recognised the voice at once and nodded at Faraday. Faraday picked up the extension.
‘Put my son on,’ Stu said.
‘I can’t. He’s not here. Listen to me. Ten million, right?’
‘We never agreed that.’
‘I don’t care a fuck. It’s ten million or nothing.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning you get hold of the money or never see your kid again. I said twenty-four hours. This isn’t a game.’
‘Ten million is a fortune. Where am I supposed to get that sort of money?’
‘You can find it if you have to.’
‘How?’
Faraday had instructed him to keep the guy talking. Hence all the questions.
‘Listen to me …’ the voice was saying now. ‘The next time I call we discuss delivery arrangements. You got that? I’m not into hanging around, believe me.’
The phone went dead. Stu looked up, aware of the sweat pouring down his face. Suttle was upstairs in a spare room. He’d been listening on another extension. Faraday knew he’d be talking to the Comms techie who’d also monitored the call.
Minutes went by. Stu was still in the armchair, his head back, his eyes closed. Then Suttle appeared at the door. Faraday looked across at him.
‘Well?’
‘Payphone at Waterloo station, boss. We never had a prayer.�
�
Metropolitan Police Special Ops was headquartered in a bleak office block in the depths of Lambeth. On the phone, Willard had fixed a five o’clock meeting with the Detective Superintendent in charge. He was ten minutes late.
Special Ops worked out of a suite of offices on the fifth floor. Det-Supt Blake Aaron was a lightly-coloured thirty-something who reminded Willard of Barack Obama. The same ease and grace in his physical movements. The same uncanny ability to spin a thought or mint a phrase. Here was someone who’d spent a great deal of time and effort on the dark arts of presentation. In a force as politicised as the Met, thought Willard, Blake Aaron was heading for the top.
‘Traffic’s like weather, Geoff. All you need is patience.’ He shrugged aside Willard’s apologies for being late. ‘You want something to drink? A coffee or something?’
Willard shook his head. Time was regrettably short. He had to be back in Winchester by half seven. What he needed was a steer on the Alan Garfield operation.
‘So I gather. Can you be a little more specific?’
‘Certainly. There’s a Pompey Level Three we have an interest in.’
‘Pompey?’
‘Portsmouth. His name’s Mackenzie. Aka Bazza. If you’ve been plotting up Garfield in Spain you may have come across him. The pair of them were about to close a property deal in a town called Baiona. Am I getting warm?’
Aaron said nothing. Then he gestured for Willard to carry on.
‘We suspect Mackenzie may be in deep with this Garfield but we can’t prove it. Experience tells me you might be able to.’
‘Prove it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Prove what exactly?’
‘Prove that Mackenzie has put himself alongside Garfield. And we’re not just talking property.’
‘You think they’re at it across the board?’
‘I think they may be.’
‘Class A drugs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Specifically cocaine?’
‘Yes.’
Aaron nodded, reflective, taking his time. Willard, watching him, knew that cooperation between forces was often a minefield, especially when Covert Ops were involved. Both sides in any of these negotiations were extremely reluctant to reveal their investigative hands in case the information went further. A slip of the tongue, two counties away, could wreck six months of painstaking fieldwork.
Beyond Reach Page 27
