Happy Days (3 page)

True? Winter eyed his reflection in the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. In his early fifties, he was Faraday’s age, give or take. He was overweight by at least a couple of stone. He drank too much, ate too much and took full advantage of any passing opportunity. He was losing his hair, and physical challenge of pretty much any description was definitely becoming an issue. But he had resilience, and resilience mattered, and what he also had was self-belief. There were few decisions he’d taken in his life that he’d ever regretted, and if he’d finally arrived at a parting of the ways with Bazza then that, too, could be sorted. Because it had to be faced. Because it had to be done. Because otherwise, for all his matey confidence, he knew he’d end up like Faraday.

He thought about a drink, a private farewell toast to mark the man’s passing, then shook his head. The light was still on in the bedroom, but Misty appeared to be asleep. Recently she’d taken to wearing a black silk camisole that cost a fortune and properly belonged on someone a bit thinner. She’d also installed her favourite stuffed animal, a pink leopard called Charlie with one eye missing and badly repaired damage around the hindquarters where Bazza had once attacked it with a broken bottle.

The beast stood knee-high and had occupied a corner of the
bedroom for a couple of weeks now, an affront to Winter’s sense of independence. He’d loathed it from the moment it had invaded his space, and the more he saw of it the more he knew it had to go. It was chavvy. It was infantile. It clashed with his curtains and filled him with dread in case Misty turned up with the rest of the zoo he knew she kept at home. For years, at considerable risk, he’d been knobbing Bazza’s mistress at every opportunity. Now, for reasons he still didn’t fully understand, he and Mist appeared to have become an item.

Misty stirred. She wanted to know who’d been on the phone.

‘Jimmy Suttle.’

‘What did he want?’ She was struggling to look at the bedside clock.

‘It was just a personal thing. Mutual friend.’

‘Yeah?’ She was up on one elbow now. ‘And?’

‘Dunno, really. The boy was pissed as a rat.’

Winter smothered a yawn, unsure why he was sparing her the details. Misty had met Faraday on a couple of occasions and thought him a cut above the usual Filth.

‘So are you coming to bed, or what?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter didn’t move. Earlier Misty had been worrying about her place over on Hayling Island. Bazza had acquired it years ago when his business empire was going from strength to strength. A whisker under half a million had bought a waterside property with views across Langstone Harbour, the perfect love nest for the aspiring entrepreneur. Misty had added a pool with underwater disco lights and found ample time for Winter when Mackenzie wasn’t around. Bazza still paid her a visit from time to time, but Misty sensed his heart wasn’t in it. Winter wanted to know more.

‘I’m yesterday’s shag,’ she said. ‘We do it for old times’ sake.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘I think he wants the house back.’

‘Why?’

‘To sell it.’

‘
Sell
it?’

This was news to Winter. He knew exactly how tight things were in every corner of the business because that was his job, but he’d somehow overlooked the place on Hayling Island. That, in a curious way, was family. And Bazza had always been careful to keep family assets ring-fenced from the tax man and the recent credit crunch.

‘Did he buy it outright?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’

‘What was the deal, then?’

‘I think he raised a mortgage on three quarters of it. The rest he must own.’

Winter perched himself on the edge of the bed, doing the sums in his head. In today’s market the house was probably worth around 650K. After expenses, that would still give Bazza at least 250K in equity. With the rest of his property empire in free fall, and the other businesses stretched to breaking point, there were a million pressing calls on a sum like this, but Winter’s heart sank when he realised why Mackenzie might be serious about Hayling Island.

‘Why all this? Why would he need the money?’ he asked.

‘Guess.’

‘Kinder.’

‘Of course. The guy’s got Baz by the nuts. He can’t get too much of all this politics shit. Honestly, my love, it’s pitiful to watch.’

Winter could only agree. He’d seen it for himself. Leo Kinder had become a regular fixture at Mackenzie’s Craneswater house. He was savvy, plausible and extremely well connected. Once, until they’d thrown him out, he’d been a full-time agent with the Tories, running parliamentary candidates up and down the country. Now, as a freelance political consultant, he was telling Mackenzie that – come the election – one of the two Portsmouth constituencies was his for the taking.

‘Can’t resist it, can he?’

‘Never. You know what he told me last time we shagged?’

‘Go on.’

‘He told me Kinder was a genius. And he told me that when he gets in he’s going to give the guy the freedom of the city.’

‘He
said
that?’

‘On my oath.’

‘And he believes it?’

‘Without a doubt.’

In certain moods, as Winter knew only too well, Bazza Mackenzie could be delusional. All he needed was a whiff of the big time, a glimpse of the summit, and he’d be off and running. All the usual obstacles would simply vanish. He’d charm and bully and buy his way to the top, exactly the same MO that had turned seventeen million quid’s worth of toot into a sizeable business empire. For a while running this empire had been fun. He’d earned respect, won new friends, banked another fortune in legitimate profits, but then the recession had come along, and he suddenly needed something else to keep his attention.

With the wolves at the door, the world of balance sheets and employment contracts and meetings with lawyers was suddenly a pain in the arse. There had to be another challenge, something sexier, and in the shape of Leo Kinder he’d found it. First the possibility of standing for the post of elected mayor. Then, when the required legislation never happened, the chance of becoming an MP. This little conjuring trick was a tribute to the spell that a guy like Kinder could cast. Nowadays, from where Bazza was sitting, the city had seen enough of the same old faces. The people, the
voters
, had been shafted by the mainstream parties. Pompey,
his
Pompey, deserved better.

‘So what’s it costing?’ Winter inquired. He had asked Bazza exactly the same question and got no answer.

‘He says fifty grand.’

‘Double it.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Yeah. And probably double it again. You know the man, Mist. He doesn’t do losing. If Kinder puts a price on success, he’ll take no chances.’

‘Two hundred grand?’ Misty was doing the arithmetic. ‘That’s what he’d pocket from my house.’

‘Exactly.’

There was a long silence. Charlie the pink leopard had become a brooding presence in the room. Winter risked a glance, shut his eyes, shook his head. Then he felt the stir of bedsprings beneath him and a gentle tug on his arm as Misty tried to peel off his dressing gown. Moments later he was flat on his back while Misty busied herself with the knot on his pyjama bottoms. He knew exactly what was coming next. And he dreaded it.

Naked below the waist, he succumbed to her dancing fingers for a moment or two then levered himself half-upright. Supported on his elbows, he watched her bobbing head.

‘So what will you do?’ he managed at last.

Her head slowed. Her fingers closed around him and her face appeared. Winter recognised the smile she saved for special occasions.

‘I’ll move in here for real.’ She nodded at the bedroom and gave him a little squeeze. ‘You fancy that?’

PORTSMOUTH: FRIDAY, 14 AUGUST 2009

Suttle was at Det Supt Parsons’ office door at nine o’clock. For the first time in years a hangover had bent him over the toilet bowl. Lizzie, after a night of trying to cope with their daughter, had ignored him. Since he’d showered, dressed and risked a slice of cold toast, they hadn’t exchanged a word.

Parsons wanted to know about the post-mortem. The thought of Faraday on the pathologist’s table made Suttle’s stomach heave.

‘Half nine, boss. Up at the QA.’ The Queen Alexandra Hospital was Portsmouth’s newest and biggest, a sprawling complex on the fold of chalk overlooking the city.

‘I want you there, Jimmy. I know it’s tough but it has to be done.’

Suttle stared at her. For the first time he realised the role she’d assigned him over the coming days. Because Faraday’s death wasn’t being treated as suspicious, there’d be no need for a police presence at the post-mortem. But Parsons, as ever, wanted no surprises.

‘Are you serious, boss?’

‘Of course. We need to keep on top of this thing. You knew him. You worked with him. Intel’s your speciality. We need a motive, some proof of
intent
. You get my drift?’

The inquiry was already tagged Operation
Castor
. Any kind of oversight role in the unexplained death of his ex-boss was
the last thing Suttle needed. He briefly contemplated appealing to Parsons’ better nature but knew it would be a waste of time. She wanted him to keep an eye on Faraday’s immediate family too, offering them whatever support they needed.

‘There isn’t any, boss, as far as I can suss.’

‘
None
?’

‘Only his son, J-J.’

‘Does he know yet?’

‘I’ve no idea. He might.’

‘Where is he?’

‘London. Chiswick.’

‘Then go up there and hold his hand, eh? After the PM.’

‘Fine, boss.’ Suttle glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better make a move.’

Winter was summoned to breakfast at Sandown Road. Mackenzie’s house was a big red-brick Edwardian villa with huge windows and an upstairs glimpse of the sea beyond the tennis courts at the end of the road. Bazza and his wife Marie had been living here for a while now, his most visible down payment on a new life among Southsea’s moneyed professionals. Regular dinner parties and summer barbecues had fattened his address book, and – according to Marie – he’d recently treated himself to golf lessons at a pricey resort complex on the mainland.

Winter had phoned Mackenzie earlier, demanding an urgent meet, and when Bazza had enquired why, he’d just laughed. For nearly a year now there’d been only one subject to justify this kind of call: money. The Mackenzie empire, besieged on all sides by the recession, was leaking funds at an alarming rate. The company accountant, a talented refugee from the Inland Revenue with fingers in all kinds of city pies, had long been telling his boss that he had to start selling assets, but Bazza was temperamentally incapable of throwing the corporate gearstick into reverse. Making any kind of retreat simply wasn’t his
style. You got richer by taking risks. You survived by holding your nerve. One day, hopefully soon, the market would turn. In the meantime you manned the battlements, laid in stocks of boiling oil and repelled all boarders.

The big family kitchen was at the back of the house. Winter skirted the swimming pool and stepped in from the rain. Marie was laying the table. The smell of grilling bacon put a smile on Winter’s face.

‘Who else are we expecting?’ There were four places at the long wooden table.

‘Leo. He’s been with Baz for a while now.’ She nodded towards the door. ‘He wants you to join them.’

Winter shed his dripping raincoat and made his way through the adjacent living room to Mackenzie’s den. It was still early, barely nine o’clock. It wouldn’t surprise him if Leo Kinder had moved in, sparing himself the near-daily commute from his trophy cottage out in the country. Misty was right. The world of politics had gone to Bazza’s head. Only last week he’d described it as the new cocaine. Only better.

Kinder was a sleek thirty-something with a passion for designer jeans and crisp white collarless shirts. Most days he affected a hint of designer stubble and just now, to Winter’s alarm, he occupied the leather recliner Mackenzie reserved for special guests. This, as Winter knew only too well, meant that Bazza’s political guru, the company spaniel, had emerged from the long grass with something especially tasty.

‘Listen to this, mush.’ Mackenzie waved Winter into the other chair. ‘Leo’s come up with a media strategy for the big one. He’s got the mainstream lot sorted already. Remember the stuff we had in the
Guardian
? The
Telegraph
? Lots more of that to come. But here’s the kicker. We go into social media. Big time. We blitz it. We tie the whole fucking city up in knots. We get in their face. We go undercover. We go viral. It’s votes, mush. It’s all about votes. We set up these weirdo sockpuppet accounts and invite all those monkeys out there to join the
party. Not any old party. But
my
party,
our
party—’ He broke off suddenly and shot a look at Kinder. ‘Sockpuppet accounts? Have I got that right?’

‘You have, Baz.’ Kinder granted him a nod of approval, then switched his attention to Winter. ‘It’s a group thing on Facebook. You make up a name and an email address, plant whatever seeds you like, and then step back and let it happen. You have to keep control, of course, but no one has a clue what you’re up to or who you really are. In my game you need to boss the agenda. This is one way of doing it.’

‘There are others?’

‘Lots. Twitter. Getting stuck into the big aggregators. Digg. Reddit. Targeting specific forums. How much time have you got?’

Winter shrugged, aware of the blaze of light in Bazza’s eyes. Switching him on had never been a problem, as Leo Kinder had quickly discovered.

Mackenzie was sitting at his desk. He swivelled towards his PC and reached for the keyboard.

‘Take a look at this, mush.’

Winter found himself staring at a logo. The distinctive silhouette of the Spinnaker Tower reared out of an eye-popping wash of yellows and reds. Put it on a bottle of crap lager, Winter thought, and you might just risk a mouthful or two. Mackenzie bent to the keyboard again. Two words appeared beneath the same image:
Pompey First
.