“I’m afraid not. This is going to sound very tactless, I know, but there’s to be a post-mortem. Daniel was a known IV user so they have to take various blood tests, HIV, Hep B, Hep C. Assuming he’s clear, they’ll be doing the PM tomorrow.”
“And?”
“I’d like your permission to tape it.”
“The post-mortem?”
“Yes. I’ll need to talk to the coroner as well but your support will make that a great deal easier. And when you come down I’d like to do an interview.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we have to see this story through. We have to know where it ends. The post-mortem is part of it. That’s where junk leads. To the mortuary, to the dissecting table, to all of that. And afterwards, of course, there’ll be the funeral.”
“You want to tape that too?”
“Of course.”
“You said “we” just now. Who’s “we”?”
“You and me, Mr. Kelly. I’m simply the messenger. You’re his dad. Together, I think we owe him.”
Another silence, even longer this time. Then Eadie bent to the phone again.
“This video will be selling into schools,” she said quietly. “With some of the proceeds I’d like to propose a memorial fund in Daniel’s name. I know this can’t be easy for you, Mr. Kelly, but we have to make some sense of a tragedy like this. Not just for Daniel’s sake but for the millions of other kids who might put themselves at risk. I know you understand that and I’m not asking for a decision now. May I call you back in a while? Once you’ve had a chance to think it over?”
The answer, when it came, was yes. Eadie smiled.
“Yes to phoning you back?”
“Yes to the post-mortem. And yes to all the rest of it.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I’m positive. I don’t want another conversation like this in my life but I admire you for asking. Does that make sense?”
“Perfectly.” Eadie was still smiling. “And thank you.”
Chapter 8
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 09.15
Faraday couldn’t take his eyes off Martin Prebble. For some reason he’d expected Tumbril’s forensic accountant to be older, greyer, and altogether more in keeping with the painstaking business of teasing a successful prosecution from a million and one pieces of paper. Instead, he found himself introduced to an exuberant figure in his late twenties with gelled hair, designer jeans, and an expensive-looking collarless shirt. Oddest of all was a circular purple blotch, the size of a five-pence coin, high on his forehead. Half close your eyes, and it might have been a caste mark.
“Paintballing,” Prebble explained at once. “Mate’s stag do last night. Guy I was up against thought he’d pop me at point-blank range. He’s an investment banker. Brain-dead since birth.”
“You’re telling me it’s permanent, honey?” It was Joyce arriving with a plate of chocolate biscuits, plainly concerned.
“Haven’t a clue. Half an hour with a packet of frozen peas says no but I wouldn’t rule out cosmetic surgery…” He reached up to help himself to one of the biscuits. “Clever, though, eh? Tough shot from three feet.”
Brian Imber was waiting for the meeting to settle down. The space he’d cleared in the middle of the Tumbril conference table was promptly commandeered by Joyce. The way she bent low over Prebble, depositing the tray of coffees, told Faraday she’d fallen in love again. Young, good-looking, and funny. Never failed.
“We’ve got most of this morning.” Imber was looking at Prebble. “Like I said on the phone, we need to get Joe up to speed.”
“No problem.” The words just made it through a mouthful of biscuit. “My pleasure.”
Prebble, it turned out, had spent the early months of his involvement with Tumbril burying himself in every last shred of evidence until Mackenzie had become as familiar to him as a member of his own family. Only with a picture this complete, he told Faraday, did he feel confident enough to apply the appropriate financial protocols -pursuing particular audit trails, leaning on conveyancers and the Land Registry for details of umpteen property transactions, chasing up invoices and bank payments in a bid to build a day-to-day profile of Mackenzie’s expenditure, and thus get the measure of his real wealth.
Imber, recognising this young man’s talent for getting inside the head of Tumbril’s principal target, had decided to turn the entire briefing over to him. Only when it was absolutely necessary would he contribute thoughts of his own.
“Have you ever met Mackenzie?” Faraday was still watching Prebble.
“Never had the pleasure. I know him on paper figures mainly, intelligence files from Brian, surveillance snaps, gossip but that’s pretty much it.”
“Informants?”
“Very little. Brian says that’s unusual but my guess is these guys are tight with each other, always have been. That’s what you breed down here. The place feels tribal to me.”
Faraday smiled. It was a shrewd judgement.
“And do you like what you see?”
“In some ways I do, yes. I’m an accountant. I know the way money works. This guy’s been well advised, and more to the point he’s listened. That’s not always the case, believe me. I’ve done legitimate audits, big corporate stuff, where the guy behind the big desk listens to no one and blows a big hole in the bottom line. Mackenzie’s not like that. Most of the time he watches every penny. He’s a peasant at heart, and that’s served him well. Plus, I understand he can be ruthless. Two reasons why he’s a rich man.”
“How rich?”
“Last time we counted? Including all the nominee assets?” He frowned. “Nine million four, give or take. And that’s discounting narcotics in the pipeline, either on order or unsold.”
“You’re telling me he’s still dealing?”
“God, no. He’s well past that. But analysis tells me he bankrolls others and takes a slice. It’s standard practice, happens all over. You get to a point where you can’t be arsed with all the running around. Ten years ago, he might have been closer to the front line but the last couple of years he’s been back in the chateau. Ninety-five per cent of what he’s up to now is totally legit, just like any other businessman. Which I guess explains why I’m here.”
Faraday’s attention had strayed to the big colour blow-up of Mackenzie’s Craneswater mansion on the wall. Prebble was right. With a multi-million-pound business empire to look after, Mackenzie was far too busy to stoop to simple criminality. Hence Nick Hayder’s contortions baiting the Spit Bank trap. Only by threatening his bid for the big time could Tumbril hope to manoeuvre Mackenzie into compromising himself.
Prebble said it was worth an hour or so just talking about Bazza, and apologised in advance if he was repeating what Faraday already knew. Faraday waved the apology away. It was something of a relief to find someone who was prepared to walk him, step by step, through the entire story.
Mackenzie, Prebble explained, came from a Copnor family, a tight-knit area of terraced streets in the north-east corner of the city. His dad had been a welder in the dockyard and had scraped to get young Barry into St. Joseph’s College.
This came as news to Faraday. St. Joe’s was a Catholic boarding school in Southsea, high academic standards plus a dose or two of discipline from the Christian Brothers.
“His father could afford the fees?”
“No way. The boy won a scholarship. I told you just now, the man’s bright. Wayward, but bright.”
Bazza, he said, had hated the school. For one thing, they played rugby when he was mad about football. For another, he couldn’t stand wearing the same uniform as all those poncy rich kids. By the age of fourteen he’d been suspended twice, once for persistent smoking, and again for running a rudimentary protection racket, extorting everything from Bounty bars to Clash albums. After a monumental row with his disappointed father, he chucked in the towel at St. Joe’s and joined his Copnor mates a
t the local Isambard Brunei comprehensive. Three scraped passes at GCSE provoked another family row, and at the age of sixteen he left home to doss down with his elder brother Mark, who was by now making a living as a painter and decorator.
“Bazza went in with him?”
“Far from it. He’s never fancied physical labour. Not then, not now. He joined an estate agency, got himself a junior selling job, mainly on the phone.”
From his desk in the estate agency, Bazza watched the early ‘80s property boom gathering speed. Weekends, he partied hard, swallowed bucket-loads of whatever was available, and re-established his social roots. What Prebble termed a leisure shag with a high school dropout called Marie resulted in a baby, Esme, but Bazza never took much interest. By this time he was playing serious football, turning out for a Pompey League Sunday side called Blue Army. The “S3/‘84 season took them to the top of the league, earning a fearsome reputation for on-and off-pitch violence on the way.
“What about the 6.57?”
“He was in it from the start.” Prebble glanced at Imber. “Am I right?”
“Spot on.” Imber nodded. “The 6.57 was pub-based to begin with, half a dozen groups coming together for the away games. There was no real leadership, not at the start. Bazza and his mates drank at a Milton pub, the Duck and Feathers. They went along for the laugh, just like the rest of them, and the thing just got bigger and bigger.”
By the late ‘80s, with Pompey briefly elevated to the old top-flight First Division, the sheer anarchy that fuelled football violence had opened Bazza’s eyes to the possibilities of a life of crime. By now he’d abandoned the estate agency after a senior partner had caught him in bed with his second wife, but Bazza’s years selling property had taught him a great deal about the commercial logic of toshing and selling on. What he needed was ready cash to buy crap properties and, on away days to the big London clubs, he found it.
“89’ Prebble was enjoying himself. “The summer of love.”
The fighting briefly stopped. Bazza began to import ecstasy tablets into the city by the thousand. After ecstasy came cocaine, an uglier drug but a much bigger mark-up. The violence kicked off again but Bazza was moving on. First a terraced house in Fratton. Then three more in an adjoining street. Then an old bed-and-breakfast ruin in central Southsea. All on drugs money and a string of mortgage frauds.
“We’ve got a few bits and pieces in there.” Prebble nodded towards Joyce’s precious archive. “His accounts were practically non-existent and he cut every conceivable corner but house inflation had set the market on fire and he knew he couldn’t lose. It was money for nothing. Most of the building materials were thieved and he part-paid the blokes in cocaine.”
By now, his elder brother Mark had tired of Pompey. Mad about sailing, he’d gone to the West Indies to seek his fortune as crew on charter yachts.
“Is that important?” Faraday couldn’t see the point.
“It will be.” Prebble nodded. “Just remember the name.”
Back in Portsmouth, and by now in his mid twenties, Bazza had decided to get himself organised. Cannier and more ambitious by the year, he fell in with a young accountant. The new partner sorted out his chaotic paperwork, bought an off-the-shelf company, and together they set about plotting a route to the serious money.
“The company’s called Bellux Limited. It was basically a device to warehouse future developments.”
“Still exists?”
“Absolutely.”
“And the accountant?”
“They fell out a couple of years back. No one knows quite why, but
Bazza got himself a replacement within days. Woman called Amanda Gregory. Shit hot.”
There was a rustle of documentation, and seconds later a surveillance photograph appeared at Faraday’s elbow, courtesy of Joyce.
“Does her shopping every Friday lunchtime, sheriff. Obliged us with this.”
Faraday studied the photograph. Amanda Gregory had been snapped beside a series 7 BMW, loading groceries into the open boot. She was a small, neat woman with a cap of black hair. The carefully cut two-piece suit had a Save the Children sticky on one lapel. Faraday could see the girl with the tin and the clipboard behind her, picketing the car-park entrance to Waitrose.
The smile that ghosted across Faraday’s face spoke for itself.
“You’re right,” Prebble said. “This woman could be pulling mega-bucks from any of the biggies, Price-Waterhouse Coopers, Ernst & Young, you name it. Instead, she chooses to work for Bazza. We’re talking Mr. Respectable here. That’s just how far the guy’s come.”
“And how long has all this taken?” Faraday tapped the photo.
“A decade. Max.”
Back in the early ‘90s, he said, Mackenzie was still an apprentice millionaire. In those days, according to Imber, the Pompey drug scene was dominated by a fellow 6.57, a scary hooligan called Marty Harrison. Bazza had known him for years and they had no problem fencing off separate chunks of the exploding drugs biz for their individual benefits. While Harrison specialised in amphetamine and happy pills for the weekend clubbers, Bazza concentrated on cocaine. Long term, it turned out to be a shrewd decision but at the time it was a nightmare.
“Why?”
“There was too much cash around. As fast as the accountant washed the stuff, Bazza would turn up with another bucket-load. One time he and his mates took a truck over to Cherbourg, bought eight grands’ worth of booze for resale, and drank half of it on the way back. We’ve got the press cuttings if you want to see them. Riot and affray charges and letters to the local paper. That was a bit of a watershed. Bazza couldn’t play the wild man any more. Not if he wanted to make it.”
Bazza’s accountant, he said, had drawn a line in the sand. From now on, they had to clean up their act. One solution was more property: houses, a run-down nursing home off the seafront plus the Cranes-water house featured on the wall. Another was a boarded-up Southsea shop the accountant had spotted for sale. As a fashion outlet it had died on its feet. Bazza bought the lease for a song, put in the builders, and turned the place into a stylish cafe-bar.
“The Café Blanc’ Faraday had driven past it a million times. Sleek chrome interior, London cappuccino at Pompey prices. “Place is always packed.”
“Exactly. From the accountant’s point of view it was perfect. He could wash money straight through the till. Plus it suited Bazza’s love life.”
By now, he explained, he was back on terms with Marie. His daughter Esme had turned into an attractive twelve-year-old and, after a couple of months’ negotiation, Marie agreed to join him in the Craneswater mansion. A month later, they flew to Hawaii and got married. One of Bazza’s wedding presents to Marie was a Mercedes coupe, bought from a Waterlooville car dealer called Mike Valentine. The other was the Cafe Blanc. The business, Prebble said, was hers.
“And now?”
“Still is. Along with half a dozen others.”
“They’re still together?”
“So it seems.”
There was a silence. Faraday could hear Joyce busying herself with the percolator. The smell of fresh coffee reminded him briefly of happier mornings with Eadie Sykes.
“You want a break?”
“No.” Faraday shook his head. “Press on.”
“Sure.” Prebble helped himself to the last of the biscuits before Joyce scooped the plate away. “From where I’m sitting, the Café Blanc was the turning point. For one thing, it was a stand-alone business earned its own profits, had a perfectly kosher set of accounts. Bazza was using it to wash the dirty money, of course he was, but you’d need to spend a lot of time proving it. Secondly, it gave Bazza a taste of what a real business could do for him. In my experience, these guys are always trying to square the circle. They want a big legit success and everything else that goes with it. At the same time, they can’t tear themselves away from old habits. Money that easy is irresistible.”
“Once a criminal…”
“Ex
actly. The Café Blanc did it for Bazza. It was perfect. Trendy decor. Good vibe. Lots of profile. Plus the chance to bury all that embarrassing loot. That spelled Bazza heaven. All he needed to do now was repeat the trick.”
Another money-making opportunity, Prebble explained, arrived in the shape of his brother Mark. After nearly ten years in the Caribbean he returned home for a brief holiday. He and Bazza naturally had a lot of catching up to do and much of the conversation must have revolved around cocaine. Mark, with his working knowledge of the Caribbean, had developed some interesting contacts in Colombia. He also wanted to set up a yacht charter business of his own but needed substantial backing. Bazza, in turn, was keen to put his ever-increasing UK profits to work. Mark’s dream of running a company of his own might just be the answer.
“How come?”
Prebble shot a look at Imber, then leaned forward. The fact that he hadn’t once consulted the file at his elbow told Faraday a great deal about the fascination of an inquiry like Tumbril. Bazza Mackenzie had got under this young man’s skin. No wonder Imber had put such faith in him.
“Bazza was being pressed to take some of his money offshore. The Cafe Blanc was turning over a decent profit and there’d be more businesses to come. He could declare these profits in the UK, no problem, but the money he was making in the cocaine biz was becoming an embarrassment. There was only so much he could put through the Cafe Blanc. Somehow, he had to find another hidey-hole.”
“Gibraltar.” Faraday was there already.
“Exactly. The place is perfect. Every bloke you meet knows someone who sets up front companies. Taxes are minimal and everyone keeps their mouth shut. All that…plus Bazza would really feel at home.”
“How do you mean?”
“Gib is Pompey with palm trees. Big naval base. Loads of pubs. Fights at the weekend when the package tours arrive. Like I just said, perfect.”
Faraday caught Imber’s eye and smiled. Only last year he’d spent a couple of days in Gibraltar trying to coax a murder suspect onto the plane home. Thanks to the local police they’d scored a result, and in the back of his mind he’d always wondered about a trip back. Maybe now he’d get the chance.
Cut To Black Page 14
