“You told her?”
“Not at all. I just said our friend might be off the plot for a while.”
“So you did tell her.”
“No, I simply said there was every chance he’d be looking for pastures new. As far as she’s concerned, we’re chasing him out of town.”
“So no sale on the fort.”
“Exactly, not to Mackenzie, anyway. I said, you know, we’d give her every practical assistance finding a replacement buyer but it wouldn’t be him.”
“How did she react?”
“No problem. She’s a good girl, totally on side very sensible, very sound…” He let the sentence trail away, nodding to himself.
Faraday was wondering which direction Wallace might appear from. According to McNaughton, he’d be driving the trademark Porsche Carrera. Lucky bastard.
“How come the divorce?” Faraday mused.
“Haven’t a clue, Joe. What makes you think I’d know?”
“No idea, sir. Just thought you might have talked, that’s all.” Faraday caught a glimpse of something low and silver peeling off a distant roundabout. Half a minute later, a Toyota MR.2 roared past, a middle-aged woman at the wheel.
Faraday glanced across at Willard. For once, he was looking glum.
“Do you mind me asking you something personal, sir?”
“About Gisela?”
“About the job. About Tumbril.”
“Not at all.” Willard permitted himself a small, mirthless smile. “Do I think it’s been a bastard? Yes. Do I think it’s been worth it? Ask me again in half an hour and I’ll tell you.” He shot Faraday a look. “Does that cover it?”
“Pretty much. Except I still can’t get a handle on locking ourselves away like this.” He gazed out at the Edwardian bulk of the hotel across the road. “Rock and a hard place? Would that be fair?”
“Rocks, plural.” Willard’s bark of laughter took Faraday by surprise. “And places so bloody hard you’d never go that way again. Not if you had a brain in your head. Have you been up to see Nick Hayder recently?”
“No.”
“He’s starting to sort out the last couple of months. He’s still clueless about Tuesday and probably always will be but Tumbril’s come back with a vengeance and you know what he said to me? “Thank Christ for hospitals.” Do you believe that? From Nick? That man’s not a quitter, never has been. Neither, thank God, are you. But stuff like this…” He shook his head. “You don’t know who to trust.”
“Does that make Mackenzie clever?”
“Not at all. But the guy’s got reach, pull. We’ve known that for years. That’s what drugs buys you. Set up an operation on his scale and you can put anyone in your pocket. But that’s the irony, isn’t it? If he wasn’t that powerful, we wouldn’t be here. But because he is that powerful, the job’s close to impossible. If this falls through…” He left the thought unvoiced.
There was a long silence. From the kite flyers on the Common, a whoop of delight.
“What about headquarters?” Faraday queried at last.
“Always dubious. I don’t blame them in a way. The Home Office don’t want policing, not the way we used to understand it, they want miracles. Here’s half a pound of marge. Here’s a couple of thousand loaves of sliced white. See what you can do.” He fingered the leather steering wheel. “Tumbril’s living on borrowed time. Has been for a while.”
“But you think…?”
“I think nothing, Joe. I’m a copper, a detective. Show me Mackenzie, tell me to take him down, and that’s what I’ll do.”
“But I thought it was your idea? Your initiative?”
“Wrong. It was Nick’s. And look what happened to him.”
Abruptly, there came a crackle from the Nagra and then the sound of Wallace’s voice. He was half a mile down the road, putting in a test call to McNaughton. McNaughton confirmed reception and wished him good luck. When Faraday checked along the line of parked cars, McNaughton was still buried in his paper, acknowledging Faraday’s glance with a barely perceptible nod.
Willard’s finger had found the window controls.
“Hot in here,” he muttered.
Winter sat in Cathy Lamb’s office at Kingston Crescent, trying to work out how much a man like Mike Valentine would need to start a new life.
“Say he clears two hundred grand on his house after the mortgage. And say he cashes in the business for another 200,000. Make it half a million including all the other bits and pieces. It’s still not enough, is it? Not if you like a bit of style in your life.”
“Where’s he going?”
“No idea. Except Le Havre’s first stop.”
“Positive. I got it from the travel agent he’s using. How did you make out with P&O?”
“I’m waiting on a call back. They’ve promised me something by this afternoon.” She paused. “You’re really telling me he’s taking the cocaine with him? Why would he take the risk?”
“What risk? He’s going against the flow, Cath. He’s swimming upstream. How many people re-export the stuff? The last thing French customs expect is a load of charlie off the Pompey boat. And once he’s through Le Havre, he’s home free. The kind of weight he’s probably carrying, he could set himself up anywhere. It’s what they always say, Cath. The best scams are the simplest.”
Cathy smiled. She’d come straight from her allotment in Alverstoke: patched jeans, sweat-stained T-shirt, and dirt under her nails from a morning’s weeding. She’d also brought a bag of assorted veg in case Winter fancied real food but so far he didn’t seem interested.
“So what are we saying here?” She reached for a pad. “The guy’s off tomorrow night? We let him get on the ferry? Impound the Beemer aboard? Turn him round the other end and bring him back? Only I don’t understand why we don’t spare ourselves the grief and do it here and now.”
“He may not have stashed the cocaine yet.”
“Sure. Tomorrow then, en route to the Ferry Port. At the Ferry Port. Whatever.”
“No, Cath.” Winter was emphatic. “Just say I’ve got it right. The guy’s carrying hundreds of grand’s worth of gear. He’s tied in with Mackenzie. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. That makes it dodgy, Cath, from his point of view.”
“You’re telling me he’s nicking it? From Mackenzie?”
“Yeah.”
“You think he’s got some kind of death wish?”
“No idea. But if we let him get on the boat, a tenner says we’ll find out.”
Cathy nodded, beginning to sense the direction Winter was headed.
“You mean we do the cabin?”
“Exactly. We talk to P&O, get the cabin number, put a couple of techies on the crossing tonight. Get them to wire it up, video as well. We block off the cabins either side, make ourselves at home tomorrow night and see what happens. The guy might just have bailed out with hundreds of grands’ worth of someone else’s charlie. It’ll be party time.”
“What if Mackenzie knows about it? What happens if it’s part of some bigger scam?”
“Same difference. Either way, he’s going to be mouthing off. I’m talking evidence, Cath. This way, we might get to hurt Mackenzie as well.”
Cathy said nothing, thinking it through.
“What makes you so sure Valentine’s got company?”
“It’s a four-berth cabin. On his tod, he’d have gone for a two-berth.”
“So who is he travelling with?”
“Haven’t a clue, Cath.”
“And you really think this is for keeps? Valentine’s not coming back?”
“Yeah.” Winter nodded. “That’s exactly what I think.”
Cathy was still wondering whether to give Winter the benefit of the doubt. She’d been in this situation with him dozens of times on division and she knew it paid to listen. It also paid not to ask too many questions. Winter’s MO was unlike any other and he shared his secrets with nobody.
“We’ll need a RIPA.” She was thinking al
oud now. “And someone needs to talk to Special Ops. Then there’s P8to. Those are conversations for Willard, not me.”
“Willard will take it over. Be nice to keep it to ourselves. Put the squad on the map.”
“There’s no way, Paul. Willard has to know. I can’t authorise this. It’s way beyond my pay grade.”
“OK.” Winter accepted the logic. “You’ve told Willard about Leggat yet?”
“No.” Cathy nodded at her phone. “I tried just now but he’s not answering. I need to brief him about Jimmy Suttle, too. You heard about last night? Gunwharf?”
Winter held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.
“They told me at Central this morning.” He looked pained. “Bit of a scuffle, wasn’t it?”
Chapter 21
SUNDAY, 23 MARCH 2003, 12.36
“Look, Joe.” Willard couldn’t believe his luck. “Second window along. Perfect.”
He was right. Mackenzie had arrived at the Solent Palace fifteen minutes ago, dropped off by his wife. After a drink with Wallace in the Vanguard Bar on the other side of the building, largely inaudible on the radio link, the pair of them had now moved into the first-floor restaurant. At Mackenzie’s insistence, they’d taken a table in the window. Just a snatch of conversation as they sat down together was enough to confirm the rapport they’d established. They were old mates already, Faraday thought. The Graham and Bazza Show.
Faraday watched them settling in the window, clearly visible, and wondered whether it was the same table he’d occupied only yesterday. Nice views of the kite festival plus three guys in two cars listening to your every word. Bizarre. Faraday stole a look at McNaughton in the nearby Golf. Sooner or later, when he judged it safe, he’d be snapping a couple of close-up shots on the telephoto for the CPS file. u/c officer charms full flag level three. The incontrovertible proof.
Bazza was asking Wallace where he lived. When Wallace said he had a little place in Chiswick, it turned out Bazza’s cousin lived a couple of streets away.
“Thin girl. Dyes her hair pink. Does everything at a thousand miles an hour. Drinks in a pub called the Waterman. Can’t miss her’ he laughed ‘even on a dark night.”
Wallace said he’d keep his eyes open. These days, he did most of his social ising in town.
“Clients?” Mackenzie enquired.
“Yeah. My girlfriend works for the Saudi military attache. Big place in South Ken. She’s got a pad of her own round the corner in Queen’s Gate Gardens. Huge rooms. No offence, mate, but it puts this place to shame.”
“Yeah? What’s her name?”
“Sam, but everyone calls her Boysie. Never found out why.”
“She in business with you as well? Or strictly pleasure?”
“Both. But mainly pleasure.”
“Well connected, is she? All those Arabs? Bring you lots of trade?”
“Trade?” Faraday caught the subtle lift in Wallace’s voice. Willard, entranced, had his eyes closed. The u/c officer, it was already apparent, was playing a blinder.
“Call it business, then.” It was Bazza again. “I’m just being nosey.”
“About what exactly?”
“What line you’re in. Only, business these days, you know, you read the label on the tin and it turns out to mean fuck all. You with me, Gray?”
“Not really, no.”
“OK. So you develop stuff abroad. Shopping centres, wasn’t it?”
“Bricks and mortar. Anything that turns a profit. Customer wants a Formula One circuit and he’s got the money to fund it, I’ll find the people who can make it happen.”
“Middleman, then. Mr. Ten Per Cent.”
“Fifteen. Else I don’t get out of bed.”
“You serious?” Mackenzie sounded genuinely impressed. “That’s fifteen per cent of what?”
“The development budget.” Wallace laughed. “Lovely phrase.”
“So what are we talking?”
“Last deal? High fives.”
“Five figures?”
“Yeah. You remember the place down in Gloucestershire I mentioned on the phone? The Tudor place the guy wants to turn into a health spa? So far I’ve made a couple of phone calls, sorted the people he should talk to, sent him the invoice. Fourteen grand says I’m one happy bunny.”
“And him? The bloke himself?”
“Over the moon.”
Faraday glanced over at Willard. They both knew that Mackenzie had already made a check call to this particular client, a plant who’d been happy to blow Wallace’s little fiction. Not that you’d know it, listening to Mackenzie.
“And are there more like him?” he asked.
“Enough, if you know where to look. Some sectors, the economy is hammering along. That’s why the Arabs are buying everything up. Property, land, business, franchises, you name it. France and Germany are dead in the water. Here? Fucking El Dorado.”
“What else do they buy?”
“Not with you, mate.”
“What else do you help them with? Bricks and mortar, great. The odd business, no problem. But you’ve got to have a laugh from time to time … or am I missing something here?”
“Girlies, you mean?”
“Sure…and everything that goes with them.”
Faraday still had his eye on the two men in the window. It was hard to be sure at this distance but he sensed an over-reluctance on Wallace’s part to be tempted down the path that Mackenzie was trying to flag. In this curious charade it was important not to be hasty but Wallace was taking coyness just a bit too far.
Mackenzie had evidently decided to dispense with the foreplay. Time was moving on.
“Something tells me you’re full of shit, mate,” he said amiably.
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“The bloke in Gloucestershire for starters. That’s all bollocks. And I should know because I phoned him.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. And he’s barely heard of you. Couple of calls the back end of last year, you fishing for work…Told you to fuck off, didn’t he?”
“Not exactly.”
“Yeah, all but though.” Faraday saw the smaller of the figures in the window leaning forward over the table. “So what do you do?”
Faraday heard the muffled sound of someone laughing. Wallace or Mackenzie? He didn’t know.
“You’re not the Old Bill, are you?” Wallace enquired at last. “Only I’ve been had this way before.”
There was a long silence. Willard was grinning now and even Faraday managed a smile. Masterstroke, he thought, the perfect double bluff. Then came the laughter again, louder this time. Mackenzie.
“No, I’m not the Old Bill. Though you can never be sure, can you? Clever bastards sometimes.”
“Too right.”
“You’re not convinced, are you?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“You wanna bin the meal? Call it quits? Only…”
“No. It’s a long way to drive for a glass of fizzy water and a wind-up.”
“Who says it’s a wind-up? You know why I’ve asked you down, Gray. We talked about it on the phone. Me? I’m just a nosey mush who’s wondering what it might take to sort that fucking fort out there.”
“You want a clear run.”
“You got it.”
“And you think I’m complicating things.”
“I think two things, my friend. Number one, I think you’re bidding a silly price. And number two, if you’re bidding a silly price, that must mean you’ve got money to burn. Does it come from all those shopping developments? All those Tudor manor houses? Does it bollocks. Something tells me it’s much simpler. Them Arabs practically live on cocaine. As I’m sure you’ve sussed.”
“Cocaine?” Wallace sounded as if he was barely familiar with the word. “You really think…?”
“Yeah, I really do. And Graham, nice bloke though you are, that could be a problem.”
“Why?”
“Because When Mackenzie broke
off, Faraday heard Willard softly cursing. His eyes were better than Faraday’s.
“Bloody waiter,” he muttered. “Would you believe it?”
Mackenzie wanted steak and kidney pudding. Wallace settled for tiger prawns a la Creole. Willard could barely contain himself. This is developing into a radio soap, Faraday thought, one cliffhanger after the next.
Wallace, subtle as ever, had changed the subject. He wanted to know what Mackenzie was going to do with the fort.
“Why?”
“Because it might make a difference.”
“A difference how?”
“Dunno.” Faraday could visualise Wallace’s shrug. “Maybe we could cut some kind of deal, share costs and profits. That way we’d limit each other’s exposure.” He paused. “Casino, isn’t it?”
“Who told you that?”
“Gisela Mendel.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“She told me you were the most un-English bloke she’d ever met.”
“How’s that, then?”
“She told me you made her laugh a lot. She also said you spoke your mind. Play your cards right, I got the definite impression…”
Faraday stole a look at Willard. He wasn’t impressed.
“You’ve met her at all? Face to face?” It was Mackenzie.
“Yeah.”
“She’s a looker, isn’t she? Plus she’s not stupid.”
“How do you mean?”
“There’s plenty she’s not telling us, you feel it from the start. Know what I mean?”
“Sure.” Wallace was on the same wavelength. “Bit like this.”
The comment seemed to surprise even Mackenzie. Faraday’s admiration for Wallace’s nerve was boundless.
“Yeah,” Mackenzie admitted. “Bit like this.”
Someone else approached the table, an old mate of Mackenzie’s. While the two of them bantered about yesterday’s game at Preston, Faraday was watching a big black Toyota SUV. It had cruised past twice now, once one way, once the other. Two men inside, both wearing baseball caps.
“Get on with it.” Listening to the wire, Willard was getting impatient.
At last, Mackenzie’s mate departed. Wallace enquired about Pompey prospects if they made it to the Premiership and for a moment Faraday sensed that the heat had gone out of the conversation. Then Mackenzie stoked the fire again.
Cut To Black Page 37
