“What’s this, then?” Willard was pointing at one of the photos on the cork board over Faraday’s desk. It showed a mottled brown bird, almost invisible against the backdrop of dead leaves and old bracken. Faraday got to his feet and joined him. He couldn’t remember when Willard had last displayed the slightest interest in his private life.
“Nightjar,” he said. “There was a family of them on the heath in the New Forest. With any luck, they’ll be back in May.”
Willard nodded, scanning the rest of the photos.
“Still at it, then? You and our feathered friends?”
“Afraid so. Keeps me out of mischief.”
“Your boy still tag along? Only I remember he was pretty interested.”
“No.” Faraday shook his head. “J-J’s fled the nest, pretty much.”
“Off your hands, then?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Willard glanced at his watch. The Tumbril meeting with Brian Imber was due to start in a couple of minutes. Imber might be waiting even now. The Det-Supt nodded at the pad on Faraday’s desk, then reached for the door handle.
“Mum’s the word, eh? About Wallace?”
The parking in the commercial heart of Southsea was a nightmare. DC Jimmy Suttle took his chances on a double yellow, pulling the unmarked squad Fiesta behind a long line of cars. Beside him, Paul Winter was peering at a property across the road: big Georgian sash windows and a glimpse of a handsome porticoed entrance behind an encircling eight-foot wall. The walls of adjoining properties, equally grand, had been defaced with graffiti. On the wall across the road, not a mark.
“Bazza HQ.” Winter helped himself to another Werther’s Original. “Told you he’d come up in the world.”
The last time he’d paid a visit, a couple of years back, the place had been a gentlemen’s club, a gloomy, shadowed echo of the dying days of empire. Run-down and barely used, Bazza had bought it for cash from the trustees, meaning to restore the interior to its former glory. Back in the nineteenth century, one of Southsea’s premier families had lived here, a brewer who’d made his fortune slaking Pompey thirsts. A man with political ambitions, he’d ended up as the city’s mayor, bringing a gruff, broad-chested impatience to deliberations in the council chamber. Mackenzie had evidently read a pamphlet or two about the man, sensing how shrewdly he’d turned business success to other ends, and rather fancied running his own commercial empire from within the same four walls. Craneswater was fine if you wanted a decent place to live, somewhere nice for the missus and kids, but the middle of Southsea was where you’d leave your real mark.
Suttle reached for his door handle. Chris Talbot also operated from the pile across the road. There were questions he needed to answer about the Scouse lad in the back of the Transit, about the abandoned Cavalier in Portsea.
“Wait.” Suttle felt Winter’s hand on his arm.
Electronically controlled gates sealed the house off from the road. As they swung back, Suttle recognised the bulky figure in a leather jacket, pausing beside a low-slung Mercedes convertible. Chris Talbot.
“What’s the problem?” Suttle had the door open now. “Either we front up now or we lose him.”
“Wait,” Winter repeated.
Another figure appeared in the driveway beside the Mercedes. She was tall and blonde with wraparound shades and the kind of tan you couldn’t buy from a salon. It was hard to be sure at fifty metres, but she didn’t seem to be smiling.
“The lovely Marie,” Winter murmured. “Bazza’s missus.”
Talbot opened the boot. Marie handed him a bag, then checked her watch. Time was plainly moving on.
“OK.” Winter gave Suttle the nod. “Let’s go.”
They walked across the road. Talbot saw them coming. Winter stood in the drive, blocking the exit to the road.
“Christopher,” he said amiably. “Thought we might have a chat.”
Talbot glanced at Marie, then circled the car. His shaved head was mapped with scars and a tiny silver cross hung from one ear lobe. His eyes, screwed up against the bright sunlight, were pouched with exhaustion and his face had a slightly yellowish tint. Once, thought Suttle, this bloke might have been good-looking.
“Well?” Winter wanted an answer.
“No chance.” Talbot nodded down at the car. “Just off. Marie fancies a run out to Chichester.”
“Riding shotgun, are we? Keeping the Indians off?” Winter glanced up at the house, aware of a watching face at an upstairs window. “We can either do it here or at our place. Your choice. The quicker we get it sorted, the sooner you get to Laura Ashley. So what’s it to be?”
There was a sudden movement behind the car. Marie had produced a set of keys. Getting into the driver’s seat revealed the extent of her tan.
“Where are you going?” Talbot bent down to her window.
“Chichester, where do you bloody think? You want to talk to these guys, that’s fine by me.”
“Listen, Baz said…”
“Fuck Baz.”
She gunned the engine, her face expressionless behind the windscreen and the designer shades. To Suttle’s surprise, despite the language there wasn’t a trace of Pompey in her accent.
Talbot bent to the driver’s window again, then had second thoughts. Looking up at the house, he put his hand to his mouth. The piercing whistle opened a window. A younger face leaned out.
“Chichester, son,” Talbot yelled. “Marie needs company.”
“See?” Winter was beaming at Suttle. “Apaches everywhere.”
Marie and her new escort gone, Winter and Suttle followed Talbot into the house. Winter, with a memory of cobwebbed windows and threadbare moquette, paused inside the gleaming front door, already impressed. A new-looking floor lapped at the edges of the enormous hall. A big chandelier hung from an elaborate ceiling rose. Even the air itself smelled of money.
“Bazza given up on pool?” Winter gestured at the golf bag propped beside the front door.
Talbot ignored him. An elegant staircase wound up towards the first floor. Winter paused beside the second of the framed pictures. Once, this staircase would have been lined with family portraits, specially commissioned in oils, the brewer’s entire dynasty gazing down on visitors below. Now, each of these huge blow-up photos captured a moment at Fratton Park: Alan Knight palming a shot over the bar, Paul Merson at full throttle down the wing, Todorov lashing the ball into the net, the crowd erupting beyond him. There was even a shot of Alan Ball, the day Pompey last made it into the top division, his arm round his beaming chairman.
“This isn’t a house,” Suttle muttered. “It’s a fucking shrine.”
Talbot led them to an office at the end of the top landing. The desk looked new and there was a gentle hum from the PC. Two filing cabinets flanked the big sash window. A coffee machine was bubbling on the table beside the desk and the year planner on the wall above was already thick with appointments stretching into early summer. In early June, five days were blocked off for Wimbledon.
“This yours, then?” Winter gestured round.
“Bazza’s. He’s away today.”
“What’s this?” It was Suttle. He’d spotted a big French tricolour carefully draped on the back of the door. It was the one splash of colour amongst the muted greens and browns.
Talbot refused to answer. Winter was looking amused.
“Go on. The boy’s a Saints fan. Tell him.”
Talbot shot Winter a look then sank into the chair behind the desk and helped himself to a coffee.
“Bollocks to that. You want to talk business, go ahead. If I want a social chat I can think of better company.”
Winter was eyeing the percolator.
“Just the one sugar will be fine.”
“Help yourself.”
“I will. James?”
Suttle still wanted to know about the flag. At length, the coffees poured, Winter filled in the details. Back in the eighties, a boatload of fans had taken the early ferry to Le
Havre to supply a bit of Pompey support in a cross-Channel pre-season friendly. Pre-warned about the 6.57, the French police had refused to let the blue army off the boat. Mid morning, already pissed, dozens of them jumped overboard and swam across the harbour to dry land. After a while, the gendarmes gave up and let the rest off. Big mistake.
“Why?”
“Rape and pillage. The game didn’t start until the afternoon and Le Havre’s full of bars. Worse still, it’s full of Frenchmen. Not their fault, no offence, but the Pompey weren’t having it. Trashed the place. Just trashed it. Then they all jumped in a load of cabs and went off to the game. Place called Honfleur down the coast. Used to have a nice little ground till our lot took it apart. Got the game abandoned, too. The Goths had nothing on the 6.57. Eh, Chris?”
“And this thing?” Suttle nodded at the flag.
“That was afterwards, the way I heard it. Bazza came across a bar they’d missed first time round. The name of the place was the real wind-up.”
What was it called?”
“Cafe de Southampton. The flag was out front, only bit to survive.”
Winter chuckled to himself, then poured more coffee. At length, Talbot yawned.
“You going to get on with this or what? Only some of us have a living to make.”
“Of course.”
Winter put his coffee to one side and produced his pocketbook. Talbot and his mate had been clocked at the station at half past two in the morning. What happened before then?
Talbot pushed the chair back from the desk and stretched his legs. Then he clasped his hands behind his neck and gazed up at the ceiling.
“You want it all?”
“Please.”
“OK. We were down in Gunwharf. Few bevvies. Quiet for a Wednesday.”
“Time?”
“Late. Forty Below chucks out at two. Must have been around then, give or take. Then we wandered back to the motor, you know, the way you do.”
“We?”
“Me and Steve Pratchett.”
“He works for Bazza?”
“He’s a subbie plasterer.”
“Where do we find him?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“Doesn’t he have an address?”
“Bound to.”
“Mobile?”
“Always binning them. It’s a credit scam. He’s always after a new model. He can’t stand purple. Fuck knows.”
“So what happened?”
“The van was parked round the back of the Keppel’s Head. We’re driving back through Portsea, middle of the fucking night, and we see this mush hanging out of a Cavalier. At first I think he’s pissed. Then we get close, right alongside like, and shit you should have seen the state of him.”
“Pre-damaged?”
“What?”
“Forget it. You stopped?”
“Of course we did. The bloke was spark out, blood all over his face, his T-shirt, everywhere, right beating. Then he comes round, moaning and groaning, and he must have thought it was us that did the damage because he starts thrashing around like you wouldn’t believe.”
“You’re kidding…” Winter shook his head. “You do the damage?”
“Exactly. Anyway, me and Steve do our best to clean him up, then we ask where he’d like us to take him.”
“Home would have been a good answer.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t say that, does he? He wants to go to the railway station. He’s had enough of Pompey. He wants to get the fuck out.”
“The station’s shut.”
“That’s what we told him. Made no difference. There he is, bleeding all over us, and all he can talk about is the fucking timetable.” Talbot rubbed his face, then yawned again. “In the end, we did what he wanted, took him to the station. Closest we could get was the ticket barrier. Never even said thank you.”
“And the handcuffs?”
“What handcuffs?”
“You’re telling me you didn’t handcuff him to the barrier?”
“No fucking way. Why would I do a thing like that?”
Winter knew there was no point pursuing the charge. While he had absolutely no doubt that handcuffs were part of the tableau, the camera angle had masked the detail.
“What about the wraps?”
“Wraps?”
“We found half a dozen wraps in the Cavalier. Smack.” Winter took a sip of coffee. “Didn’t plant them yourself, did you? Only that would have been a kindness.”
“Who to?”
“Us. We want these guys out of the city as much as you do.”
“Really?” Talbot’s interest was at last engaged. “Shame you haven’t nicked them, then. You try fucking hard enough with the rest of us.”
“Is that right?” Winter sounded positively hurt. “You’re sitting here on half a million quid’s worth and you’re telling me we’ve spoiled your party?”
“Not yet. But you’d like to.”
“How does that work, then? Are we talking busts here? Street level? Half a dozen scrotes with a gram or two between them? That kind of aggro Bazza wouldn’t even notice.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I do?” Winter looked mystified. “Help me out at all, Jimmy?”
Suttle shook his head. He was making notes in his pocketbook. Later, when Winter had finished, he’d take a formal statement.
Winter was brooding over this latest bend in the conversational road. He’d heard rumours about some covert operation being mounted against a major player in the city but he’d always put all this down to propaganda from the guys at headquarters who had worries about force morale. If no one had ever managed to lay a finger on Bazza Mackenzie, then it would be nice to pretend that someone was at least trying. But maybe, for once, the rumours were true.
“Tell me more’ he said at length ‘then we might leave you alone.”
“You have to be joking. That’s me done.”
“Worried about Bazza? Speaking out of turn?”
“Fuck off.”
“My pleasure.” Winter held his gaze for a moment, then produced a card from his wallet. “When’s the great man back?”
“Baz? Late this afternoon.”
“Good.” Winter slipped the card onto the desk. “My mobile’s on there. Tell him to bell me if he fancies it. Tonight would be good. The telly’s awful.”
It took less than ten minutes for Faraday to turn the Tumbril meeting into a head-to-head with Willard. Brian Imber had reported back from his visit to Mackenzie’s bank. Bazza, he announced with a frown, had ordered the sale of a penthouse flat in Gunwharf. The property, on a prime harbour side site, was on the market at 695,000. “There has to be a reason,” Imber puzzled. “Has to be.” Faraday wanted to help out but knew he couldn’t. In all probability, Mackenzie was raising cash against the purchase of Spit Bank Fort, proof positive that he’d taken Nick Hayder’s carefully laid bait, but a single glance at Willard produced a tiny shake of the head. Any mention of Graham Wallace or the fort was still off-limits in front of Brian Imber. Strictly need to know. At least for now.
Willard steered the meeting onto safer ground. He wanted to know the status of Prebble’s input, how far the accountant had got, how soon Willard could expect a totally reliable statement of the assets under
Mackenzie’s control. Faraday knew this information was important. The moment they managed to tie Mackenzie to a specific criminal offence proven in a court of law was the moment the confiscation process kicked in. From that point on, it would be down to Mackenzie to justify his legal ownership of every one of those assets, a challenge -in Prebble’s view that would be beyond him. In this sense, as Imber kept reminding him, Tumbril had turned the investigative process on its head. First Prebble calculated how much they could nick back off the man. Then they looked for a specific charge that would stand up in court.
The latter, as far as Faraday could fathom, was the real problem. Trapping a criminal as well protected as Mackenzie was a nea
r-impossibility, and only a detective as driven and original as Nick Hayder would even be minded to try. In the shape of Spit Bank Fort he’d come up with a big fat plum that Mackenzie just might be tempted to scrump but in Faraday’s view the odds against a successful sting were stilll high, not least because Tumbril despite Hayder’s best efforts was itself far from secure.
An incoming phone call drew Willard to his desk. When he returned to the conference table, Faraday brought up the pre-Christmas intercept. Mike Valentine’s Mercedes had been stopped and searched en route back from London. The plan had been hatched and overseen by the Tumbril team, albeit with substantial input from other units. There was overwhelming evidence that the Mercedes was carrying substantial quantities of cocaine. Yet the full search found nothing.
“And your point is…?” Willard sounded testy. This was old ground.
“My point is someone leaked. Told Valentine. Told Mackenzie. Maybe not directly. Maybe it went through different hands. But either way it got there in the end. Hence the fact we drew a blank.”
“We know that. And it’s been addressed.”
“How?”
It was a direct challenge. Willard, to his obvious irritation, couldn’t duck it.
“Listen, Joe. We’ve always known from the start that Tumbril was basically an audit operation. It’s paper-based, figures-based. That’s how far the budget stretches and even then, believe me, we’ve barely got enough. The moment we want to spread our wings, mount an operation, scoop someone up, we have to widen the circle, bring in the specialists covert, surveillance, whatever. There’s no way, short of the Good Fairy, we can do anything else.”
“Of course.” Faraday nodded. “But has anyone asked the hard questions about the intercept? Drawn up a list of names? People who knew? People who might have’ he shrugged ‘leaked?”
“I did.” It was Imber.
“And?”
“How long is a piece of string? We needed Special Ops for the covert. That’s a couple of blokes, minimum. Surveillance? Maybe half a dozen more. Say ten in all. It’s maths, Joe. Each of these guys has mates. Each of those mates has more mates. Suddenly you’re into half the force. The miracle is, we’re still reasonably watertight, at least as far as the paperwork is concerned.” He paused. “Did you know about Whale Island?”
Cut To Black Page 19
