Happy Days (41 page)

Winter nodded. Now wasn’t the time to talk about Jimmy Suttle, and Lizzie and Grace. Now was the time to try and make her feel just a little bit better.

‘You’ve been brilliant. A brilliant wife. A brilliant mum. And brilliant to me too.’

‘Been?’

‘Are.’ He tried to smile. ‘I was always crap at grammar.’

She turned away and said she had to go to bed. This whole thing would sort itself out, she knew it would. Winter nodded, saying nothing, wondering why Bazza hadn’t put in his nightly phone call. Maybe he rings late, he thought. Maybe he waits until he knows she’s tucked up.

Then came a ring at the front door. Marie glanced up at the clock and frowned. Nearly eleven.

‘I’ll get it,’ Winter said.

He walked through to the hall. The porch light wasn’t on, but he could see the foggy shape of someone waiting through the frosted glass. Marie had bolted the door top and bottom. Winter drew the bolts and opened the door.

Bazza.

He looked Winter up and down. He too had been drinking.

‘This used to be my place …’ he said. ‘Mind if I come in?’

Winter didn’t get back to Hayling Island until gone midnight. He’d stayed long enough for a coffee and a bit of a chat before leaving Bazza and Marie to it. In his heart he knew Bazza was back for good, and he was glad for Marie’s sake, but that didn’t make the parting any easier. Next time they met he knew the circumstances would be very different. He just hoped, way down the line, that she’d forgive him.

Misty was asleep when he crept into the bedroom, but the moment he rolled into bed she woke up.

‘Where have you been, pet?’

‘With Baz and Marie.’

‘They’re back together?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank fuck for that. She should chop it off. Bloody man.’

She switched the light on. She was parched. Too much Stolly. Drinking alone would be the end of her.

Winter padded downstairs and made a pot of tea. Returning to the bedroom, he settled beside her. He’d tried to rehearse what was coming next but had never quite managed to find a way of softening bad news. Better, perhaps, to just say it.

‘The shit’s about to hit the fan, Mist.’

‘What shit?’ She was brushing sugar off the duvet. ‘What fan?’

‘Bazza. There’s no way I’m going into details, but he’s fucked.’

‘Broke, you mean?’

‘Big time. And other stuff as well.’

The gravity of what Winter was trying to say was evident in his face. It dawned on Misty that this was serious.

‘So what’s going to happen?’

‘They’ll have the house off you.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Mist. We’re in queue territory here. We could start with the bailiff but it doesn’t end there.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We move.’

‘But what about Trude? She’ll be home in a couple of days.’

‘She comes too.’

‘Where? Where would we go?’

Winter hesitated. He could try and flannel her. He could try and pretend he’d just dreamed up the idea. But neither option would work because Misty Gallagher had been around for a while and very little got past her.

‘Abroad, Mist. We’ll have to go abroad.’

‘
Abroad?
Why, for fuck’s sake?’

‘Because we have no choice.’

‘We?’

‘Me.’

‘Why?’ She peered at him. ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Yes.’

‘Big trouble?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you killed someone?’

‘Sort of …’ He nodded. ‘Yes.’

She gazed at him for a long time. At first Winter misread her reaction as disbelief. Then he realised she was, in some unfathomable way, proud of him.

‘Pet …’ She abandoned the cup and gave him a hug. ‘You should have told me. What’s a girl for, for fuck’s sake?’

Winter tried to fight her off. She wanted to know where they were going.

‘Croatia,’ he said, ‘for starters.’

‘Really?’ She was in his face again. ‘And is that why you went out there? To get things ready?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter was happy to lie. ‘So now you know.’

‘And this friend of yours? This woman? She’s all part of the plan?’

‘She is.’

‘Thank fuck for that. Trude’ll be pleased too.’ She paused, struck by another thought. ‘And Baz? Marie? They’re coming too?’

Winter looked at her, holding her at arm’s length, knowing he couldn’t ride his luck any further. Enough was enough.

‘No, Mist.’ He leaned forward and kissed her. ‘I’m not sure that would ever work.’

HAYLING ISLAND: TUESDAY, 4 MAY 2010

Winter phoned Maddox from Hayling Island. Upstairs he could hear Misty padding round the bedroom. She’d been up since dawn, going through her wardrobes, pulling out stuff she wanted to hang on to, making another pile for the charity shop. After a fitful night’s sleep she’d decided that relocating abroad would be an adventure.

Maddox finally answered from Porec. She said she was at the agency. She’d had one customer all morning and he’d only come in to make a pass at her.

Winter, relieved that she hadn’t put to sea with Josip, said he was about to change all that. He had money. And he wanted her to find a six-month rental.

‘How much have you got?’

‘Enough.’

‘One bedroom? Two?’

‘Three, minimum.’

‘
Three?
What haven’t you told me?’

‘Long story. Think me and a lady called Misty and a twenty-five-year-old with a walking problem.’

‘Croats are useless around disability.’

‘Then find us a carpenter. Or someone who can sort out the aids we’ll need.’ Winter grinned. The prospect of money made things so simple. ‘Deal?’

He hung up in time to catch Misty doing a twirl in a low-cut
cocktail dress he’d last seen her wearing in the days when she was still pulling Bazza. She struck a pose, pushed her chest out.

‘What do you think? Yes or no?’

‘I think yes, Mist.’ Winter’s grin widened. ‘Come here.’

Mid-morning, contrary to what he’d told Winter, Bazza turned up at Fort Nelson. Leo Kinder, who was beginning to despair about the campaign, was struck by the change in his candidate. The gloom seemed to have lifted. He was his old self again, Pompey’s bantam cock, strutting his stuff.

‘Alright, are we?’

‘Never better, mush.’ Bazza shot him a wink. ‘Thank fuck for marriage.’

Kinder looked at him a moment, wanting to know more, but time was moving on.

‘The piece to camera? You’re happy to go for it?’

‘No problem. I’ve got it nailed.’

Kinder had struck a deal to bus in a couple of classes of kids from a local primary school, and the Royal Armouries, who ran the museum, had been as good as their word in offering help. Bazza was best mates with the young cameraman who turned up from BBC South and even the weather was on
Pompey First
’s side. Best of all, for the first time in nearly a week there was no sign of the scrote vote.

The cameraman set up for the master shot. Leo wanted a gaggle of kids around Bazza as he walked along a line of artillery pieces. Some of these monsters had been installed to defend Pompey against the marauding French, and the plan was to track slowly backwards until Bazza and his eager young posse got to the last cannon. This one had been primed with a blank charge, and it was Bazza’s job to order the attending gunner to let fly.

Kinder knew enough about media set-ups like these to understand how much he was asking of Mackenzie. The walk was timed at around three minutes. From start to finish Bazza
had to cover more than five hundred years of history, from the sinking of the
Mary Rose
to the dispatch of the Falklands task force. This was a challenge that would stretch a seasoned professional. Bazza had never done anything like it in his life.

Kinder needn’t have worried. From the moment he set foot in the fort and saw the guns, Bazza was in top form. He rallied the kids, led them yelping and screaming down the ramparts, and then bullied them into a wide circle around him. He let the sound recordist fit a radio mike, jogged along the line of artillery for a word with the gunner, then returned. The cameraman, who was shooting this first take hand-held, had organised someone to guide him backwards as he held Bazza in shot. All that remained, in Bazza’s phrase, was nailing it.

On Kinder’s cue taping began. Bazza, who’d established a rapport with the kids, kicked off with Henry VIII. Big fat guy, he said, nodding down towards the city below. The Frenchies arrived off Southsea Castle, the battle started, the
Mary Rose
heeled over and hundreds of men died. These were local blokes, he said. Blokes like your dad and your grandad. All dead. For why? Because Pompey, your Pompey, our Pompey,
mattered
. We were in the right place at the right time fighting the right enemy. After Henry’s precious flagship came Admiral Byng – total wimp, executed by firing squad in Spithead. And then HMS
Victory
smashing through the French line of battle. And then the world’s first ironclad, HMS
Warrior
. And then the Dreadnoughts chasing the Germans at the Battle of Jutland. And then the D-Day armada thundering south towards France. And finally HMS
Hermes
sailing halfway round the world to put the Argies back in their box. These, said Bazza, were Pompey blokes. Something we ought to remember. Something we ought to be proud of. Something we ought to celebrate. Why? Because Pompey had always been the guardian of the nation’s flame.

This last line was Kinder’s but the rest was pure Bazza. And as he came to a halt beside the last gun, he turned to the kids
with a question: ‘You want to send the French a message? You do? Then here it is …’

A nod to the gunner cued the blank charge. The girls screamed. The boys covered their ears. Even the cameraman was impressed.

‘Brilliant,’ he muttered to Kinder. ‘How the fuck did he manage that?’

Winter was in Winchester by half past two. Suttle and Parsons met him at the safe house. Parsons wanted to know about Skelley.

‘He’s coming down tonight. Mackenzie talked to him first thing this morning.’

‘And what do you think he’s going to say?’

‘I think he’ll tell us to fuck off. As far as I can see, he’s not having it.’

Parsons, like Suttle, was worried about the strength of the evidence. The DVD interview was a taster, no more. Lublin police were on standby with a European Arrest Warrant, and Beginski could be back in London by the weekend if Willard chose to trigger proceedings.

Suttle needed to be sure that Winter would be present when Skelley met Mackenzie.

‘I’m assuming yes.’

‘Then you’ll need to wear a wire unless there’s some other way we can put a rig in. I know you don’t want to, but there’s no alternative.’

Winter knew he was right. Whatever transpired at this evening’s meet would be priceless ammunition when it came to arrest and interview, and the transcripts would probably end up in a court of law. But there was a downside, too. Winter had never been much interested in risk assessments but on this occasion he was prepared to make an exception.

‘Skelley’s a quality criminal,’ he said. ‘I’m assuming he’ll
bring protection. He might insist on a pat-down. The rest writes itself, doesn’t it?’

Parsons and Suttle exchanged glances. They’d been anticipating exactly this conversation for days. It was Suttle who voiced the obvious.

‘Without hard evidence, Paul, it could get sticky. If we’re relying on your testimony, Skelley’s briefs will be dancing in the aisle.’

‘A bit harsh, son, isn’t it?’ Winter looked aggrieved.

‘Not at all. They’ll turn the entire trial into a test of character. How much reliance can we place on a police officer who ratted on his mates? Who joined forces with a known criminal?’

‘But he’s not a known criminal, not a
proven
criminal, that’s the whole point.’

‘Sure, but here’s the catch-22. Mackenzie is a Level 3. He’s built an entire empire on Class A narcotics. We need to take him down. We need to put him away. But if the evidence boils down to you, we’ve got a problem.’

‘Beginski?’

‘He’ll certainly help.’

‘And Baz himself?’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘He’s bang up against it, son. Everything I promised has come true. He’s skint. He’s totally potless. And
Pompey First
has become a joke. All Skelley has to do now is tell him to fuck off and you’re looking at blood on the walls.’

‘Is that a guarantee?’

‘Of course it’s not. But it’ll happen.’

‘Says you.’

‘Says me.’

‘When?’

‘By the end of the week. Bazza’s burned through the loan he got. The bank’s back on the phone.’

Parsons nodded, scribbled herself a note, said nothing. Suttle wasn’t convinced that
Pompey First
was finished.

‘I was talking to one of the surveillance guys just now. He was up at Fort Nelson this morning, doing the punter thing. Apparently Mackenzie played a blinder, not a scrote in sight. The guy was so impressed he’s thinking of voting for him.’

‘That’s because he got a decent screw last night. God bless Marie.’

‘He’s back home?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter paused. ‘
Where
did you say he was this morning?’

‘Fort Nelson. The Royal Armouries place.’ Suttle frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

A phone call took Winter to the offices of the
News
. Gill Reynolds collected him from reception and led him upstairs. The editor, Mark Boulton, was waiting in his office overlooking the production floor. Winter settled for a milky coffee, two sugars.

Boulton looked far too young to be bossing a paper as big as the
News
. His body language suggested that Reynolds was heading for stardom.

‘She’s been keeping a diary for Mackenzie,’ he said, ‘as you probably know.’

Winter nodded. The coffee was vile.

‘We’re building all this into a post-election special,’ Boulton went on. ‘She might have told you that as well.’

‘Mackenzie mentioned it.’ Winter checked his watch. ‘Where’s all this going?’

‘Good question. Like most of the rest of the city, we think we know about Mackenzie. About where his money came from. All that.’