‘Pays a fortune to get him back. I agree with you, mush. Stu’s fucking lost it. But I can just about see what he’s driving at, poor sad bastard.’
They joined Esme at the table. Mackenzie reached across and took her glasses off.
‘What’s that for?’ She was furious.
‘Because you and me ought to have a conversation.’ He folded the glasses into his top pocket. ‘Any chance you might start behaving like a human being again? Now that Stu’s done the decent thing?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know what it means, love. It means that the music’s stopped and we all go back to our own chairs. It means that your shagging days with the Filth are over. And with a bit of fucking luck it might mean that your son hasn’t gone through all this for nothing.’
‘You’re telling me that’s my fault too? Some headcase, some pervert kidnapping the child? That’s down to me?’
Mackenzie smiled, refused to answer. Marie arrived with a tray of food. Bazza hadn’t finished.
‘Did I hear a yes?’ He cupped his hand behind his ear. ‘Can I assume our friend Madison is history?’
‘He’s gone back to his wife.’
‘Poor bloody woman. Was that his decision or yours?’
‘His, I imagine. I’m not his keeper.’
‘But you’d had enough? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I had plenty, thank you. And for the record I enjoyed every minute of it.’
‘I bet you did. How come a decent bloke like me fathers an old slapper like you? How come you’ve got enough between your ears to get to university and not a grain of fucking decency when it comes to people who love you? How come you find it so fucking hard to say sorry?’
‘We’re talking apologies?’ Esme got to her feet. ‘Maybe you ought to start with Mum and with that nice Chandelle. I’m out of here.’
She turned on her heel and left the burger bar. Winter, looking at Marie’s face, felt intensely sorry. When it came to families, he’d concluded, no amount of patience, no amount of glue, could hold the thing together. Having Guy back meant the world to Marie. Now this.
Mackenzie was eyeing his daughter’s abandoned salad. He glanced at Winter.
‘Half each, mush?’
It fell to Faraday to prepare what Parsons termed an ‘interim report’ on Operation Causeway. Helen Christian had gleaned enough from her phone conversation with Marie to be aware of the circumstances of the boy’s return. A car had dropped him around eleven o’clock. He’d lingered a moment on the pavement before removing his blindfold. No, he hadn’t seen the driver. And no, he hadn’t a clue what kind of car it was.
Parsons had dispatched detectives for house-to-house checks the length of Sandown Road but no one had seen a car arrive at that time of night. Neither would there be any CCTV footage, largely because there were no cameras in the area. Short of tracing every car entering and leaving the city there was no way of building a case prior to interviewing the child. In this sense, Causeway’s sole remaining asset was Guy himself. Consciously or otherwise he must have picked up some clues about his captor. Assuming, of course, that the kidnap was authentic.
In his heart, Faraday was far from certain. Bypassing the alarm system without inside help was highly unlikely. Evading every CCTV camera for twenty miles argued equally for specialist knowledge of the area. Esme and Madison had shaken the family to bits. In that wreckage lay the clue to what had really happened to young Guy.
Faraday sat at his desk, brooding about the money. The bank had confirmed the withdrawal of £1 million in cash. Willard, in his eagerness to nail Mackenzie, had taken the bait and assumed - quite wrongly - that the ransom had gone with Winter to Poole. The fact that it hadn’t, the fact that the Head of CID had - in his own phrase - been humiliated, still begged a key question: where was the million quid?
Mackenzie, of course, would claim that he’d paid the kidnapper. Guy, in this sense, was his receipt for all that money. It would be Causeway’s job to press him for more details - where? when? how? - but Faraday knew that none of these questions would ever be answered. Mackenzie would simply go No Comment, claiming that he had every right to keep the information to himself. He’d secured the child’s release. The boy was back home, safe and sound. After the Filth had fucked up - no clues, no leads, no nothing - Grandad had stepped in, spent a bit of money and got the family a result. Framed that way, badged with Mackenzie’s trademark grin, Causeway was looking at a second humiliation.
Faraday began to scribble himself a note or two prior to drafting the report. When his phone began to ring he was slow to answer it.
‘Joe?’ It was Willard.
‘Sir?’
‘Where’s DCI Parsons?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
There was a silence on the line. Then Willard was back. He’d just had a conversation with one of the Met guys dealing with Garfield.
‘And?’
‘He’s disappeared. He’s supposed to report daily to the local nick. His car’s gone. His wife. The lot. Brilliant, eh? That’s all we fucking need.’
At Mackenzie’s insistence, Winter joined him for a ride on Stealth. Mid-afternoon, the queues had shortened, and as they shuffled forward through a light drizzle Winter tried to avoid the sight of the red train powering down the track towards the dizzying climb ahead. The ride guaranteed blistering acceleration to 80 mph and the track was configured to throw you upside down at the very top of the loop - two good reasons, Winter thought, to part company with his Double Whopper.
‘You up for this, mush?’ Mackenzie couldn’t take his eyes off the girls at the very front of the train.
‘Can’t wait, Baz.’
‘Ever go down Billy Mannings as a kid?’
‘Never.’
‘I used to think the Wild Mouse was a blast. Just look at this lot. Fuck me …’
Billy Mannings was the Pompey funfair beside Clarence Pier. The red train rolled off the top of the loop and came thundering down towards them. One of the girls in the front had her eyes shut. The other one was screaming fit to bust. Mackenzie gave them a wave as they flashed by then watched the train pirouette at the other end of the ride.
Winter knew he had to concentrate hard on something else.
‘This million quid, Baz …’
‘Sorted, mush.’
‘So what have you done with it?’
‘Done with it?’
The red train had finally come to a halt beside the concrete jetty that served as a station. Mackenzie was watching the girls help each other out. One of them could barely walk. Winter preferred not to look.
‘The money, Baz.’
‘I invested it, mush.’
‘In what?’
‘I’m calling it insurance. Either way it’s a sweet deal.’
The queue shuffled forward, and as they mounted the steps to the platform Winter had a sudden feeling of total helplessness. Why was he doing this? How come he’d said yes? What guaranteed that his train wouldn’t be the first to rocket straight off the top of the loop and end up in the middle of the nearby M25?
‘This one, mush. It’s got our name on it.’ Mackenzie was nudging him into the twin seats at the very back of the train.
Winter resigned himself to an ugly death. An absurdly young girl was playing the role of undertaker. She leaned over, told him to make himself comfortable, warned him not to try and stand up. The steel restraints folded down, penning them in.
‘Insurance?’ Winter muttered.
‘Yeah. I did a bit of extra business with Garfield I probably never mentioned.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like buying a stake in a couple of deals he’d set up.’
‘Deals, Baz?’ Winter was staring up at a line of signal indicators. Mercifully they were still red.
‘Yeah. Instead of money he took a couple of properties off me. Timeshares down near Marbella.’
‘You gave him the deeds?’
‘I did, Paulie. I did.’ Winter felt a squeeze on his arm. This was getting worse. Much worse.
‘Not toot though, Baz. Tell me you didn’t go shares on some fucking narco-deal.’
‘Afraid so, mush.’ Mackenzie shot him a look. He was grinning fit to bust. ‘A hundred and fifty per cent over less than a year? Who’d say no to a deal like that?’
Winter sat back and closed his eyes. Was it too late to get out? Should he scream, just like everyone else was screaming? Should he wave his arms to attract attention, just like the rest of these monkeys? Or should he find some way to dematerialise? To simply vanish off the face of the earth? Before gravity or the Serious and Organised Crime boys brought his long and distinguished career to an end?
The pressure on his arm had gone. Instead, Mackenzie was patting his thigh, giving him encouragement, telling him to be brave. An experience like this, he was saying, was the ride of a lifetime. Everything thereafter would be just a little bit different.
Winter didn’t doubt it. He shut his eyes, trying hard not to contemplate the consequences of Bazza’s latest investment. If he survived this, he told himself, then things would indeed be a little bit different.
The screams suddenly got louder. Then he felt a punch in his back, and the rumble of wheels beneath his arse, and a second later he seemed to be lying flat on his back with a hole where his stomach had once been. He couldn’t breathe properly. He was too confused, too bewildered, to be frightened. He was going up and up. The screaming hadn’t stopped. At speed, the drizzle had become cold needles driving into his face. As the train lurched to the right he opened his eyes. Big mistake. Bits of Surrey yawned beneath him. The speed was falling off. Then the train righted itself and for a single terrifying moment, as they plunged vertically down, he had the jumper’s view of the onrushing earth. This is what suicide must feel like, he told himself. This is what happens when you listen too hard to the likes of Bazza Mackenzie. The track began to flatten. The train slowed again. Another couple of twirls, and it was all over. The train juddered to a halt and Winter opened his eyes to find Mackenzie already on the platform, his hand outstretched.
‘Fancy another go, mush? Or shall we fuck off home?’
Winter rode south in the Bentley. Stu would be bringing his Lexus back once the kids had had enough of Thorpe Park. Of Esme there was no sign.
‘So Garfield’s done a runner. Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Yeah. New passport. Nice place to go to out in Morocco. No extradition treaty. Marie says he looked happy as Larry. He had a French motor waiting for him in Dieppe and a couple of days would put him in southern Spain. From there he takes the ferry to Tangiers. A million quid off me and fuck knows how much of his own and the last thing he’s worrying about is moolah. He buys himself a decent tan and a bit of peace and quiet. Bingo. Sorted.’
‘And you?’
‘You mean us, mush?’
‘Yeah. What do we get?’
‘For a million quid? You want the list? Number one, I’ve got the Spanish deeds back. He never got round to engrossing them so that means him and me never did business. Number two, he’s given me an affidavit resigning any interest in the hotel.’
‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Ez’s. She drew it up. She’s a pain most of the time but there’s still a brain in there somewhere, thank fuck.’
‘She talked to Garfield?’
‘His solicitor. I wanted to bung him too, just to say sorry, no hard feelings, but she thought it was a bad idea.’
‘He’s not going to Morocco?’
‘No.’
‘Then she’s right. The guy’s a loose cannon.’
‘I don’t think so, mush.’
‘Why not?’
‘Turns out he’s got a stack of properties in Montenegro. It also turns out he’s been knobbing Garfield’s missus. So there’s another guy who fancies a new life in the sunshine. Esme doesn’t think he’ll last the course, though. Blokes his age always come back.’
Winter nodded. Surviving three minutes of Stealth had revived his interest in life. Bazza was right. Everything felt just a little bit different.
‘So you think you’ve got it weighed off?’
‘We, mush. We’ve got it weighed off. I know it’s late in the day but Marie’s right, all the best movies keep you guessing to the very end.’
‘And you think this is over?’
‘I think we’re into something different.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like Tide Turn for starters. Have you talked to Mo at all? That boy’s a fucking revelation. How the fuck did you score someone like him?’
Winter could only smile. ‘Boy’ was an interesting description. Mo Sturrock had to be mid-forties.
‘So what’s happened?’
Mackenzie put his foot down, leaving a BMW 5-series for dead. For a second or two Winter was back on the Stealth ride. Then the Bentley slowed to eighty.
‘He’s come up with this idea, mush, and from where I’m sitting it’s a cracker. He’s calling it the Offshore Challenge. It’s all about rowing, offshore rowing, proper rowing, not the fancy stuff they do on the Thames for the Boat Race. These are real boats. He’s showed me pictures, photos. Turns out he does a bit of it himself, over on the island.’
Sturrock, he said, had been a member of the Ryde Rowing Club for more years than he could remember. These were guys who rowed two, three times a week, fit as fuck, trained like bastards, went in for regattas, won every cup ever invented. Mo had got himself a little bit of that, knew what it could do for you.
‘We’re talking serious fitness, mush. Self-respect is the word he uses. He says it turns your life around, and he should know.’
‘How come?’
‘He told Marie he had a few problems. When he was much younger.’
‘Like what kind of problems?’
‘He’s not saying or at least she’s not telling me. Either way it was a long time ago. Whatever happened, it was the rowing that got him out of it. First in Pompey, then over there on the island. Loads of kids do it in Ryde and it suits them a treat, but these tend to be nice kids, motivated kids, middle-class kids. What Mo wants to do, what he’s always wanted to do, is set something up for other kinds of kids, scrotey kids, the sort who end up in Tide Trust.’
Winter was trying to imagine the likes of Billy Lenahan in a rowing boat on the Solent. Oddly enough, he could dimly sense the logic. Better to send the boy to sea than have him hot-wiring yet more Escorts.
‘So what kind of boats are these?’
‘Four blokes rowing, one little guy at the back doing the steering. Mo’s got some contacts in the Navy. If we bung some money in for - say - three of these boats he thinks he can talk the Navy guys into giving us some kind of boathouse and maybe a PTI to do the start-off drills, just to get the little tossers fit. Then it’s down to regular sessions. He’s talking a nine-month programme. We take fifteen of them. That’s three crews. He’s worked it all out. Talk to him. Like I say, it’s brilliant.’
Winter was trying to remember a phrase Sturrock had used when they’d first met in the pub in Albert Road. He’d been going on about just how big a challenge these kids could be. Nine months, he’d said. That was how long it took to win their confidence, to build a little trust, to start to turn their lives around. And nine months on any kind of programme could cost the earth.
‘We’ve got the money, Baz?’
‘Of course we’ve got the money. Three boats? Second hand? How much is that going to cost?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He’s saying ten grand a boat. The Navy kicks everything else in. We raise a bit of extra sponsorship, blag some more dosh off Social Services, raid the Lord Mayor’s fund, talk to the Lottery, probably end up making a profit. But that’s not the point, mush.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No way. This is a beautiful idea. Tide Turn Trust, right? The Offshore Challenge, right? Flagship City, right? Turning
scrote Pompey nippers into world-beaters, right? Can’t go wrong, mush. I’ve told Mo I want a big summer launch. I want it somewhere special, maybe aboard Victory, somewhere like that. I want the press there, celebs, telly, the works. I want us knocking on everyone’s door with the Offshore Challenge. And you know who’s going to make that happen? You and Mo. Mo sorts the kids out. Mo sources the boats. Mo talks to the Navy. You do the rest. Like I say, mush. Can’t go wrong.’ He glanced across. ‘Deal?’
Winter didn’t say a word. A couple of years ago, when he’d first joined up, Mackenzie had thrown him a similar challenge. Then it had been jet skis. Now it was offshore rowing. On both occasions the emphasis was on innovation and scale. Thinking outside the box. Thinking big. Showing what a bunch of scrotey adolescents could really do with their sad little lives. Mackenzie loved taking the world by surprise. As Winter, to his cost, knew only too well.
‘Great, Baz.’ He tried not to sound glum. ‘So when do you want to launch?’
‘As soon as, mush. July at the latest.’
Chapter twenty-eight
FRIDAY, 30 MAY 2008. 14.32
Faraday officially severed his connection with Operation Causeway in a meeting with DCI Parsons. She offered a muted round of applause for the way he’d coped with the ongoing frustrations and hinted that he had her admiration for anticipating the shambles of the stake-out in the Poole pub. However, she said that Willard was less than pleased with the squad’s performance on both Causeway and Melody and without actually saying so she left him in no doubt that the key investigative link between them was Faraday himself. He seemed to have lost his appetite for driving complex investigations forward. There was also, more troublingly, evidence of a crisis of belief.
Parsons seldom strayed into territory like this. Her job, and Faraday’s, was to gather lawyer-proof evidence as effectively as they possibly could. They measured their success in the number of convictions they secured. Any issues that might lurk on the other side of that mission statement, issues about the real nature or meaning of justice, were of no professional relevance whatsoever. If people did wrong, if they broke the law, they got detected, tried, found guilty and punished. End of story.
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