“This hotel of yours,” he said. “Helicopter pad. Transfers down from Heathrow. Casino. High rollers. Something tells me you’re washing dirty money.”
“Shit.” It was Wallace’s turn to laugh. “I thought for a moment you were going to accuse me of ripping off your own idea.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Same idea? Too much dosh? High-class laundry?”
There came a silence. Very suddenly, no warning, they’d arrived at the crunch. Waiting for an answer from Mackenzie, Willard’s knuckles had tightened on the steering wheel. A yes would be a giant step towards court. At length, Faraday caught a low chuckle from Mackenzie.
“No,” he said softly. “I meant the chopper pad. It’s a neat idea. I might get my guys to scope it out. You up for wine, mate, or are we sticking on the fizzy water?”
Wallace settled for a bottle of Sancerre. When he offered to split the tab, Mackenzie told him to forget it.
“No need,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m buying the place.”
“This place? The hotel?”
“Sure. Funny that.” The chuckle became a laugh. “I thought someone might have told you.”
Doug Hughes had stood throughout the viewing. He was a tall, loose-limbed man with a boyish, unlined face and an affection for yachtie leisure gear from the expensive end of the market. During their eleven-year marriage, he’d often been mistaken for Eadie Sykes’s kid brother.
“That was incredible,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”
“I should hope not. That’s the whole point.”
“And you’ve got permission for all this?” He waved a hand at the laptop. “None of it’s ripped off?”
“Do me a favour, Doug. Nice girl like me?”
“So how did you swing it? The morgue stuff for instance?”
“Charm. And not taking no for an answer. Helps to be an Aussie sometimes, skin that thick.” She held her finger and thumb inches apart. Hughes was still staring at the tiny screen.
“So what happens next?”
“I tape the funeral and add some other footage stills maybe, stuff I can get from Daniel’s dad. Good, wasn’t he?”
“Incredible. Just perfect. No actor in the world could do that.”
“Sure. Catch ‘em in the right mood, treat ‘em rough, never fails.”
“Don’t cheapen yourself.”
“I’m not, I’m just telling you. In this game, as long as you know where you’re going, and why…”
“Yes?”
“Nothing. It’s means and ends, my love. Always was, always will be.” She reached for the PC. Once the video was complete, she had a list of people she needed to see it. That list included the mystery backer her ex-husband had tapped up for 7000. He should, at the very least, see what he’d got for his money
“Does he have a name, this guy?” She enquired.
“Of course he does.” Hughes was watching Eadie as she extracted the VHS. “This video’s still going to schools?”
“Sure. And colleges, and youth groups, and anyone else who wants it.”
“For money or for free?”
“Depends. Why do you ask?”
“Because my generous friend’ he smiled ‘might have a view.”
With the arrival of the food, the mood had changed. Mackenzie and Wallace appeared to have agreed to explore some kind of partnership deal. There’d been no further mention of cocaine or the need to launder profits. As far as both men were concerned, this had the makings of a straightforward business lunch.
Willard, Faraday knew, was disappointed. Mackenzie and Wallace were barely a glass of wine down and there was plenty of scope for excitements to come, but the feeling persisted that the key moment had passed. Wallace had cleverly led Mackenzie towards the very edge of self-incrimination yet when the words were on his lips Bazza had stepped back from the brink. Now, as the sturdy little figure in the window called for more horseradish for his steak and kidney, Wallace had returned to football.
“Ever think of buying into the club?” he asked. “Only the way things are going…”
“You’re right, mate. Premiership come August, for definite.”
“Not worth a punt?”
“Tried it once, really fancied it. Part of my life, Fratton Park.”
“And?”
“I bid for eleven per cent. They wouldn’t have me.”
“Why not?”
“Dunno. Never said. Thanks, mate.” Faraday caught a muttered comment from the waiter as the horseradish arrived, then Mackenzie was talking about the club again. Back in his 6.57 days, he’d have died for Pompey. Nearly did, couple of times.
“6.57?”
“Hard-core fans. Head cases. Paulsgrove boys. The skinheads from the Havelock. Mushes from all over. We took the first train out on away games, anywhere for a fight, bang right up for it. We were Pompey and we didn’t give a fuck. The Millwall at Waterloo. The Chelsea, Leeds, Cardiff Soul Crew, Brummie Zulus. We’d take anyone on, steam straight in, didn’t matter who, and you know what? We never went tooled up once. Too pissed most of the time, just forgot. One Derby game we ended up in a race riot. Those blokes would have eaten us, given half a chance.”
“What happened?”
“We had it with them, gave them the fucking large one. Situation like that, really tasty, some blokes just cack themselves. You can smell it, fear. Know what I mean?”
It was an innocent enough question, just a ripple in the conversational tide, but Faraday detected an edge in Mackenzie’s voice that hadn’t been there before. Willard had caught it too. The sun was hot through the windows. He was beginning to sweat.
Wallace remained as relaxed and untroubled as ever. The 6.57 sounded like a good laugh. Maybe every town should have one.
“Yeah, but that’s the point, isn’t it? This isn’t just any old town and we were’t just any old firm. Live here, grow up here, be part of the place, and you’d understand that. It’s special, Pompey. And something else, mate, it’s fucking mine. OK?”
Willard and Faraday exchanged glances. The transformation, all too sudden, was complete. For whatever reason, a smirk, a misplaced gesture, Wallace appeared to have lit a fuse under Mackenzie. His voice had hardened. In the window, he was halfway across the table, his meal ignored. This had ceased to be a peaceable business negotiation, a matey head-to-head over a pile of Victorian granite. From here on in, Mackenzie had a very different agenda.
“You know what, mate? People like you make me fucking ill. You think it’s a piece of piss, don’t you? You think I’m shit, small time, just some punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor. You think you can fanny down here and just turn me over. Well, it ain’t gonna fucking happen. Not now and not ever. You understand that? Not ever. And for why? Because I’m not as fucking thick and not as fucking small time as you all seem to think.”
All seem to think? Willard rolled his eyes.
“We’re talking about a fort,” Wallace was saying, “Not World War Three.”
“Fort, bollocks. I’ll tell you what we’re talking about. We’re talking about fucking Tumbril. We’re talking about a bunch of guys who spend the best part of a year sitting on their fat arses over in Whale Island, trying to stitch me up. That costs millions. Must do. And you know who pays your wages, Mr. Undercover Man? You know who pays for all that fancy clobber under your shirt? Plus the geezers listening in, wherever they are? People like me, blokes who go out every day and work their fucking socks off. You cunts should be out on the street, sorting out the kids, nicking the paedos, making this city safe at night. Not wasting your time with this kind of crap.”
Faraday was thinking hard about back-up. Wallace had clearly been blown. Any minute now, given the likelihood of Mackenzie’s mates in the offing, this could turn into a blood bath. Faraday glanced across at McNaughton. With his responsibility for Wallace, he plainly had the same idea.
Faraday reache
d for the door handle. Mackenzie was ranting now, accusing Wallace of harassment. The kind of stuff he’d had to put up with over the last year, Filth sniffing round his accounts, getting up his lawyer’s arse, most blokes he knew would have taken a swing. Couple of times he’d been tempted himself. Like now.
“Where are you going?” Willard’s hand was on Faraday’s arm, restraining him.
“In there.” Faraday nodded across towards the hotel.
“Forget it.”
“What?”
“I said forget it. The last thing he’ll do is land himself in the shit. This is for our benefit, Joe. He’s talking to us.”
Willard slumped back in the driving seat, his head against the plump leather. The black Toyota was back again. It coasted to a stop in front of the Jaguar, hemming them in. Two men got out. The older one was wearing jeans and leather jacket. He stood beside the driver’s door, staring down at Willard. Willard ignored him.
Faraday got out of the car.
“What is it?”
“Starter motor’s stuffed.” The man in the leather jacket nodded towards the Toyota. “Thought you gents might give us a push. Favour, like. Seeing you’ve got nothing better to do.”
Faraday looked at him a moment, aware of McNaughton emerging from the nearby Golf. Then he ducked his head back into the Jaguar. Willard had his eyes closed.
“Tell him to fuck off,” he said softly.
It was Paul Winter’s second visit to the QA in a week. To his relief, there was a different face behind the reception desk in A&E. Winter produced his warrant card and asked after a lad called Jimmy Suttle.
“Brought in last night, he explained. “Fracas down at Gunwharf.”
The receptionist scrolled back through the log, locating Suttle between two walk-ins after a domestic upset in Stamshaw, and a youth who’d put his mate’s scooter through a garden fence.
“We treated him in minor injuries,” the woman said. “Discharged at 03.44.”
“By himself, was he?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“Where did he go?”
“Home, I expect.”
“Downside Cottage?” Winter had reached in and swivelled the PC for a better view. “Buriton?”
It was nearly two by the time Winter drove out to Buriton. Suttle’s Astra was parked outside an end-terrace house a quarter of a mile beyond the pub. A side entrance led down a narrow path. Body-checking past a brimming dustbin, Winter pushed at a wooden door at the end. Already, he could hear music and the sound of girlie laughter. His heart sank. Trudy.
She was sitting on a big rug spread over a tiny patch of threadbare lawn. The sky was cloudless a perfect spring day and Suttle was stretched out on the rug, his head in Trudy’s lap. A bottle of vodka was flanked by two glasses. The music came from a ghetto blaster at Suttle’s feet and Winter spotted the remains of a deep-pan pizza in the nearby flower bed. A blackbird was pecking greedily at a smear of cheese.
“Brought you these, son.” Winter offered Suttle a brown bag. “What happened?”
“It’s worse than it looks,” Suttle said at once. “They only called the ambulance because I whacked my head when I went over.” Suttle’s left eye, swollen and purple, had nearly closed. There were marks across his forehead, too, and a scarlet weal across his cheek.
“So what happened?” Winter said again.
“Fucking Chris Talbot, that’s what happened.” It was Trudy. “Bloke was well out of order.”
“You piss him off somehow?” Winter was still looking at Suttle.
“Yeah, he did. By being with me. That’s typical of this city, that is. They ought to put Talbot in a zoo.” Trudy was reaching for the bottle. “Drink?”
Winter declined the vodka. The sun was warmer than he’d anticipated. He took his jacket off and settled on a corner of the rug. Suttle was up on one elbow now.
“You want a chair? Only…”
“This is fine. You going to take it further?”
“No.” Suttle shook his head. “Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”
“Witnesses?”
“Against Talbot?” Trudy started to laugh. “Do me a favour. You guys are supposed to be cluey. Who’s going to grass up someone like that?”
Suttle was looking at the bag Winter had brought.
“What’s in there?”
“Grapes. I thought you needed a bit of TLC.”
“That’s me.” Trudy started to laugh again. “I’m TLC, aren’t I, Jimmy? You know what time we got up? Tell him, lover.”
The state of Suttle’s face couldn’t hide his embarrassment. When he asked Trudy to put the kettle on, she got reluctantly to her feet and disappeared into the house.
Suttle turned on Winter.
“What fucking happened to you, then?”
“I was on my way back.”
“So where are the keys?”
“Bit of an accident. I locked them in the apartment by mistake.”
“Great. I could have used you in there. Turned out the bloke had been watching me from the off. Trudy He broke off and shook his head.
“Trudy what?”
“Had a real go. Borrowed one of her mate’s heels and tried to bury it in Talbot’s head. If he hadn’t been still battering me, it would have been funny.”
Winter was looking at the back of the house. Through the downstairs window, he could see Trudy drifting around the kitchen, looking for the tea bags.
“Still keen is she?”
“Keen? Shit, you should have been up there a couple of hours ago.” He nodded at the bedroom window. “She’s more knackering than taking on Talbot. Her version of convalescence could put you in hospital.”
“Lucky boy.”
“You think so? She was going away next week. Know what’s happened now?”
“Tell me.”
“She’s cancelled. Can’t leave me in this state, she’s saying. Has to move in and look after me.” He paused. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Winter was watching Trudy as she tottered into the garden with a tray of tea. “I’d enjoy it, if I were you.”
“While it lasts, you mean?”
“Yeah.” Winter cleared a space on the rug. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Faraday had never seen Willard so angry. It wasn’t just the collapse of Tumbril. Nor was it the fact that the Spit Bank sting had gone so spectacularly wrong, nor that a year’s work had gone down the khazi, nor that he’d be personally held responsible for the waste of hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of precious resources. No, it was the humiliation. Find yourself trapped in your own car, obliged to listen to the rantings of Bazza Mackenzie, and you’d be looking for blood.
“Where are they?”
“Brian Imber’s taken a couple of his boys to London. Joyce isn’t answering her mobile. Prebble’s gone to Milan for the weekend.”
“Keep trying. I want them all in here ASAP.”
“It’s Sunday,” Faraday pointed out. “And they weren’t invited in the first place.”
“Sure, but that’s a bit academic, isn’t it? I’m no mathematician, Joe, but I can count. Leave Hayder out of this and there’s five of us in Tumbril, five of us that matter. I’ve listened to the end of that fucking tape twice now and it’s obvious.”
“Obvious how?”
“Mackenzie knows. He knows everything. He’s probably known since we moved into Whale Island. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if the little fucker knew before we even dreamed the operation up. This is madness, Joe. Unless we get on top of this, we’ll all end up in St. James.”
St. James was the local psychiatric hospital, a sprawling Victorian pile half a mile inland from the Bargemaster’s House.
Grip, thought Faraday. “We’re really talking about the covert,” he said slowly. “And I make that four, not five.”
“Four?” Willard was looking blank.
“You, sir. Me. Wallace. And McNaughton.” He paused. “Plus Gisela Mendel.”
“Gisela’s straight,” Willard said at once.
“So is McNaughton. So is Wallace. So am I. Gisela wants to off load the fort for real. That says motive to me.” He offered Willard a chilly smile. “Just a thought, sir, that’s all.”
Willard’s phone began to ring. It was Cathy Lamb. She was downstairs. She needed to talk to Willard urgently.
“Come up,” he grunted. “Join the party.”
It took Cathy less than a minute to appear at the door. The sight of Faraday seemed to take her by surprise. She nodded at him, then apologised to Willard for her gardening gear.
“Been on the allotment,” she explained.
“Don’t blame you. I can think of worse ways of spending a Sunday. What’s the problem?”
Cathy explained about the arrest of Barry Leggat. Winter had pulled him last night with a decent stash of cocaine. Leggat worked for Valentine and Winter had cause to believe that the car dealer was getting out with the rest of the coke.
“Whose coke?”
“Winter doesn’t know. He thinks there’s probably a connection to Mackenzie but he doesn’t know how.”
“Evidence?”
Cathy summarised it. Most of it was either guesswork or circumstantial. Beyond dispute was the fact that Valentine was selling his house, disposing of his business, and had booked a ticket on tomorrow night’s sailing to Le Havre. P&O had finally come back and confirmed a ticket for a vehicle and a four-berth cabin in the name of Mr. M. Valentine.
“They’ve got a number for the cabin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think they might be up for a spot of covert? Only we’re good at that.” To Cathy’s relief, Willard appeared to be ahead of the game.
“Don’t know, sir. I thought you might make the call. That’s why I’m here.”
“Fine. Get me a name and phone number.”
“It’s the divisional manager. He’s at home at the moment but he’s expecting a call.”
“No problem.” He offered her a thin smile. “It’ll be a pleasure.”
Cathy disappeared downstairs again to phone the number through. Willard stared at Faraday.
“You think Mackenzie’s taking the piss again?” He frowned. “Or is Winter onto something?”
Cut To Black Page 38
