‘Plenty. That’s not a crime, though, is it? Getting pissed together?’
‘Of course it’s not. But they’re looking for a pretext, Baz. Anything to take you down the Bridewell again. That’ll happen tomorrow. I can practically guarantee it. And by then, my son, you’ll need to account for every second of Wednesday night. Pretend I’m a copper. Pretend I know a thing or two about the interview routine. You get my drift?’
Mackenzie shot a look at his wife. She hadn’t touched her champagne.
‘You’re telling me you want a little rehearsal? Here? Now?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want to, mush. That’s why not.’
There was a long silence between them. Then Marie stirred.
‘It was Wednesday night you came home pissed, Baz,’ she said.
‘I’d been with Westie. I told you.’
‘I know. I was there. That was me you were breathing Scotch all over. Remember?’
‘So why the third degree?’
‘It’s not the third degree. Paul’s right. We need to be ready.’
‘Ready, bollocks. I’ve got a brief. She’ll tear them to pieces. Never fails.’
‘And Paul?’
‘He can have her too, if it comes to it.’ He paused, struck by the thought. ‘You think it will, mush? You think they’ll come looking for you as well?’
Winter nodded. The issue of alibis was fast becoming a problem. He’d been with Misty too. All night. Time for a change of subject.
‘Coppers are bastards, Baz. They’ll do it out of spite.’ He reached for his glass at last. ‘Here’s to crime.’
Chapter twenty-five
FRIDAY, 17 AUGUST 2007.
22.31
It was DCI Parsons’ idea to celebrate Friday night’s breakthrough with a curry. A first trawl through Brett West’s flat by the Scenes of Crime team had scooped up a number of items, and the place was now secured for the night, with a uniform at the door, pending a return next morning for a full forensic search. Parsons rallied her modest army of troops on the pavement outside. Both Suttle and Faraday had homes to go to but she wouldn’t hear of it. They needed a proper conversation. There were issues to be sorted for the following day and she’d order a takeout curry in lieu of dinner. Her shout, she insisted. And a little surprise once they’d got back to Major Crime.
As Faraday had half suspected, this was Willard. Alerted by a triumphant call from Parsons, he’d driven down from Winchester. He’d laid hands on a case of Stella and sat at the conference table in Martin Barrie’s office, a half-empty bottle at his elbow, reading an old copy of the
News.
While Parsons organised the curry, he turned to Faraday.
‘Well, Joe … ?’
‘Most of it’s circumstantial, sir. He was still logged onto the Internet.
The PC screen was showing easyJet flights to Spain. He’s got a little table down by the telephone and one of those books of Pompey maps. It was open at the Salcombe Avenue page. The lads found a pile of snaps in a drawer, some of them with him and Mackenzie. Then there was this …’
Suttle had been expecting the cue. He’d stowed his bag beside the table. He reached in. The book looked like some kind of album. It was secured in a polythene evidence bag.
‘We’ll spare you the contents, sir. To be honest, we haven’t seen the stuff ourselves yet. The CSI talked us through it. We gather it’s not something you’d want to see before a meal.’
‘Stuff?’ Willard hadn’t got much patience for games like these.
Faraday came to the rescue.
‘There’s always been rumours about Brett West, sir. Mackenzie used him as an enforcer for years and paid him by results. Brett started taking photos for the record and the habit stuck. What we’ve got here is the full story, unabridged.’
‘Names?’
Faraday shook his head. ‘Faces and dates, according to the CSI. Good as.’
‘And we can link this stuff to Mackenzie?’
‘That might be tricky. Not too many of these people will be happy to talk to us. Worth a shot, though.’
‘Absolutely.’ The thought put a smile on Willard’s face.
Parsons returned, sliding into the seat beside Willard, who distributed bottles of Stella. Parsons, it seemed, couldn’t get enough of the stuff.
‘You’ve done well, Gail.’ Willard emptied the remains of his own bottle and uncapped another. ‘You’ve all done well. So what’s the plan?’
‘Jimmy will be onto the airlines soonest. EasyJet’s an obvious place to start. If we don’t get a result, we’ll look elsewhere. Once we’ve got a destination airport, I’ll talk to Interplod, sort out a warrant.’
Willard nodded. Parsons makes it sound easy, Faraday thought. Willard wanted to know about Mackenzie. Parsons threw the question to Faraday.
‘We need to tie him to Wednesday night, sir. In my book that means finding the Alfa. They had it away last night. I’d say that’s one hundred per cent. The question is, what did they do with it?’
‘They?’ So far Willard had only heard a garbled version of the chase through the city’s back streets.
‘Mackenzie was driving the Peugeot. It turns out to belong to his wife. The Alfa was in front. And no one’s seen it since.’
‘So who was at the wheel?’
‘We’re thinking Winter. For one thing, he’s aware. If West used it the night before, which he probably did, then Winter knows how much we’d want a look at it. For another, Mackenzie trusts him.’
‘How do you know?’
Faraday glanced at Suttle.
‘Winter’s got his feet under the table big time, sir. It seems Mackenzie’s well pleased with him.’
‘But how do you know?’
‘Stands to reason.’ Suttle risked a grin. ‘Mackenzie wouldn’t have bought him a Lexus otherwise.’
‘And that’s it? That’s your evidence?’
‘Of course not. I talked to him this morning. Had a little chat.’
‘You did what?’ Willard was staring at him.
‘We asked him to, sir.’ It was Faraday. ‘Suttle was with Winter for a couple of years. If anyone knows what makes him tick, it’s got to be Jimmy.’
‘I see.’ Willard took a swallow or two from his bottle. ‘So what
does
make him tick?’
The question was unfair and everyone knew it. At the same time even Faraday was interested in the answer. Suttle refused to be bullied. For once he sensed he had the floor.
‘Winter’s bloody hard to read,’ he said at last. ‘But I’d say we let him down.’
Willard and Parsons exchanged glances. Faraday, aware of last year’s U/C operation that these two had botched, awarded Suttle a silent round of applause. After all the corporate mumbo-jumbo about transparency and taking ownership now came a tiny glimpse of an important truth. They’d certainly let Winter down. Big time.
‘Let down how, exactly?’ A tiny vein was pulsing on Willard’s temple.
‘I don’t know the details, sir. But I do know how Winter felt about it. Let down was my way of putting it. I’m not sure you want to hear his version.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’d prefer not to, sir.’
‘Tell me. That’s an order.’
Parsons put a steadying hand on Willard’s arm. Willard shook it off.
‘Well?’
Suttle hadn’t moved. His face had paled a little but his eyes were steady.
‘He told me you both fucked up. He said you nearly got him killed. And then he told me that working for Mackenzie was sanity compared to what you’d put him through.’ He paused. ‘Maybe that’s why Mackenzie treats him so well. Maybe that’s why Winter loves his Lexus.’
Willard’s face was a mask. Eventually he asked to see the book again.
‘Book, sir?’
‘The album thing, with the photos.’
‘You mean West’s souvenir shots?’
‘Yeah.’
Suttle retrieved the album from his bag. Willard fingered it through the polythene bag. Then he looked up.
‘I can imagine what’s in here,’ he said softly. ‘Damaged people.
Hurt people. No angels, I’m sure, but people who never dreamed of running into the likes of Brett West. Just think about that for a moment, son. Just think what it takes to be the kind of nasty bastard who earns his living hurting people. Then ask yourself another question: ask yourself what kind of nasty bastard
pays
guys like West to hurt people. Then, if you’re still with me, comes the third question, the last question. If Mackenzie’s that kind of nasty bastard, what does it take to go and work for him? To bank his money? To break bread with the man? To get pissed with him? And to end up helping the likes of Brett fucking West cut some sad bastard’s throat?’
‘Helping sounds strong to me, sir. At this stage it’s conjecture.’
‘Sure, son. And when Winter goes down, as he will, what will you say then? That Mackenzie pulled the wool? That Winter didn’t know what he was getting himself into? Winter wore the badge for twenty years. All kinds of people dug him out of the shit. And then he does this to us. The man’s a disgrace. He was then and he is now. Thanks to you, thanks to all of you, we’re close to putting Mackenzie where that evil little scrote belongs. Winter, fingers crossed, will go down too. Nothing will give me greater pleasure. And I hope that goes for you too.’
He got up, drained his bottle and left the room. In the silence Faraday listened to his footsteps receding down the corridor. Then came the crash of the swing doors at the end as Willard headed for the car park. Moments later Parsons was on her feet. Faraday couldn’t be sure but he sensed that she was running down the corridor after him.
‘Fuck …’ Suttle was shaking his head. ‘Anyone care to tell me what all that was about?’
Faraday extended a hand, gave him a squeeze on the arm.
‘You had no choice, Jimmy. In my book he asked for it. Literally, as it happens.’
‘Yeah, boss? You think so?’
‘Yes. And either you handle it or you don’t. He didn’t, more’s the pity.’
‘Great.’ Suttle was staring at the album on the table. ‘So what do I tell the sergeant’s board? Assuming I’m still in the Job?’
Winter was back at Gunwharf shortly after eleven. He’d cut supper short, pleading a headache. Marie’s moussaka had been as delicious as ever, but he knew she understood. Westie’s recklessness, coupled with his determination to get even, had taken them into new territory. And time was short.
He had to assume they’d be knocking on his door within days, maybe even hours. They’d have a Section 8 warrant, and they’d doubtless do a Westie on his flat. With luck they’d draw a blank on the Alfa, at least for the time being, and what they threw at him in interview would depend on what they’d found in Westie’s place. What that something might be didn’t bear contemplation but Winter knew it was pointless worrying about it. First things first, he thought.
There were cameras in the undercroft car parking space. He locked the Lexus and sauntered across to the lift, whistling his tuneless whistle. Upstairs he let himself into his flat. Already he’d made a mental list of the stuff he needed to stow away. It wasn’t a long list. In fact, putting himself in their shoes, it boiled down to a single item.
He’d already taken the precaution of wrapping it in a Waitrose carrier bag and slipping it into one of the leather slippers he’d liberated from the Burj al-Arab. He retrieved it now, then fetched a screwdriver from his toolkit in the airing cupboard and returned to the corridor. To his certain knowledge there were no cameras here.
At the end of the corridor, on the outside wall, close to the floor, there was a ventilation grille. If anyone came up, he told himself, he’d hear the lift. He bent to the grille, undid both screws very carefully, not marking the paint on the screwheads. The grille came away easily, revealing a cavity big enough for his tiny parcel. He pushed it in then replaced the grille. The paint seal was broken but it was a hairline crack and you’d need to look very hard to spot it.
Satisfied, he returned to his apartment and bolted the door. Through the bedroom window it was impossible to tell but he had to work on the assumption that they’d put surveillance in place. He gazed out at the shadows in the half-darkness, wondering where he’d be if the job had come his way, but there were dozens of possible spots and in the end he pulled the curtains shut and went back to the living room. Beyond the big picture windows the view that had become his life still beckoned him over. He slid the balcony door open, sniffed the saltiness on the night air, watched a couple necking by the railings on the Millennium Promenade. Beyond lay a couple of boats nudging the pontoon. Then came the blackness of the harbour, spiked with the lights of Gunwharf, and the pale looming presence of the Spinnaker Tower. He’d miss all this. He knew he would. He thought about the prospect for a moment longer then turned back into the room
For the first time he became aware of the messages awaiting him on the answerphone. He picked up the receiver, dialled 1571. The first had been left by Misty. She wanted to say hi after Wednesday night. She’d enjoyed it. A lot. The second voice was equally familiar. Jimmy Suttle. He’d rung barely minutes ago. It sounded like he’d had a drink or two. The message was only too clear.
‘Take care, mate.’
Faraday finally made it back to the Bargemaster’s House close to midnight. In Parsons’ absence they’d taken the bags of curry back to Suttle’s new flat, where the young detective had done a lot of damage to a bottle of vodka before hauling the chicken jalfrezi out of the microwave and ladling it onto a plate of lukewarm rice.
The exchange with Willard had left him quietly emotional. Suttle was fond of Winter. He thought he’d been a fucking great detective. He understood exactly why he’d binned last year’s U/C operation and didn’t altogether blame him for putting his eggs in Mackenzie’s basket. Aside from anything else, he told Faraday, the old boy appeared to have found himself a family. He thought they cared about him, and when it came to that kind of call he’d trust Winter’s judgement.
Faraday had agreed. But the problem, he told Suttle, wasn’t Winter at all. As far as he could judge,
Mandolin
was no longer about a Saturday night party that had got out of hand. Neither was it about two bodies beside the swimming pool next door, or even Danny Cooper. It was about Mackenzie. About Operation
Tumbril
, years back, which had totally failed to pot the city’s top criminal. About last year’s bid to infiltrate Winter into his organisation. About all the other times that Mackenzie had flaunted his wealth and his growing influence, winding up the likes of Willard. The Head of CID didn’t like that at all. One day, he said, Mackenzie would find himself in a court of law. And that time, in Willard’s view, had probably arrived.