Happy Days (42 page)

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you got a good lawyer?’

‘You think we’d need one?’

‘Yeah, I do, if you put any of this shit into print.’

Boulton smiled. Reynolds, it seemed, had her suspicions about Mackenzie’s immediate short-term plans.

‘She thinks he’s going to leg it. She think’s he’s a flight risk.’

Flight risk was a CID term, and for one crazy moment it occurred to Winter that Reynolds too might be u/c, a particle of
Gehenna
that Jimmy Suttle and the rest of them had swept under the carpet Then he told himself it was impossible. He’d have sussed it earlier. Maybe.

‘She mentioned something about it last night,’ he said. ‘Famagusta?’

‘That’s right. But now she’s got a number.’

‘How come?’

Boulton glanced at Reynolds. She couldn’t wait to share her little secret.

‘I was in the Man’s office this morning. He was sweetness and light. He had to pop out for a wee-wee.’

‘And?’

‘He left his mobile on the desk. The Northern Cyprus code is 09032. The calls go through Turkey.’ She smiled. ‘The number was sitting there in his directory. I just helped myself.’

Winter said nothing. Boulton was watching him closely.

‘You don’t seem surprised.’

‘I’m not. I told you just now. I knew already.’

‘That’s not what I meant. As I understand it, you’re Mackenzie’s right-hand man. You work for him. Here’s Gill telling you about Northern Cyprus. About raiding the man’s mobile. And you haven’t turned a hair.’

‘What do you expect?’

‘I expect you to be defending your boss’s best interests. I expect a little …’ he frowned ‘… reaction.’

Winter shrugged. His day was getting worse. He knew exactly what was coming next.

‘Gill tells me you used to be a copper.’

‘That’s right.’ He glanced at Reynolds. ‘How did you know?’

‘Bazza told me. It was one of the first things he said when we
did that first interview. He boasts about it. You’re his trophy catch. The way it comes across, it was Bazza who saved you from a fate worse than death.’

‘Staying in the Job?’

‘Exactly.’

‘He’s probably right.’

‘He said that too. And he thinks you owe him.’

‘So
do
you?’ Boulton again. ‘Or are we on a different page in the script?’

Winter shuddered. This was less than artful. Reynolds, for whatever reason, had come to the conclusion that Winter was back where he belonged. Talking to the Boys In Blue.

‘I work for Mackenzie,’ he said stonily. ‘That’s where it begins and ends. Nice coffee.’ He stood up.

Boulton didn’t move. He glanced across at Reynolds and raised an eyebrow.

‘I was with Joe Faraday for a while.’ She was smiling. ‘And he told me he never really understood how you could live with working for Mackenzie.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. And he said something else too. He said once a copper always a copper. And he said you were one of the best.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Pleasure.’

Boulton got to his feet.

‘We think you might one day have a story to tell.’ He extended his hand. ‘And when that day comes we’d be delighted to help in whatever way we can. In the meantime, under the circumstances, you might want sight of that number.’

Winter gazed at him for a long moment, then shook his head and left.

Under the circumstances?

Winter knew he was in deep, deep trouble. If Gill Reynolds had put the story together then Bazza couldn’t be far behind.
That’s why he’d set last night’s trap, telling Winter about the change in location for the heritage piece and then sitting back and seeing what happened. This morning, in all probability, the scrote vote had turned up at the Tipner scrapyard, and Bazza doubtless had someone in attendance to report back.

Their next conversation would be fraught, and he knew he had to make a decision. Aborting
Gehenna
at this stage would solve nothing. With Bazza home free or settling into a new life in Northern Cyprus, there was no way Winter could avoid the shadow of the Malaga executions. One day would come the knock on the door. And that he had to avoid at all costs.

And so
Gehenna
had to run its course, earning him the deal he needed. A fresh start. A new ID. Somewhere sunny. With Misty and Trude.

The thought of Misty took him out of the city. By now she would have acquired a mountain of cardboard boxes from the Londis down the road. For an hour or so he’d be only too happy to lend her a hand, a down payment on this new life of theirs. By the time he was back at the hotel, with luck, he’d have worked out a line for Mackenzie.

It was a glorious day, and traffic was heavy onto Hayling Island. Winter drove past thicket after thicket of blue Tory posters, musing about where the election had taken them all. The master plan for
Gehenna
had been his, and in theory it was a beautiful piece of entrapment.

To no one’s surprise, Bazza had generated a perfect storm for himself. His trademark mix of recklessness, mischief, ambition and raw nerve had led him to take a tilt at Parliament. At the start of the campaign, to everyone’s surprise, he’d done extremely well. There’d even been rumours that the mainstream candidates were beginning to worry. But then, as Winter had predicted, it had all unravelled until Pompey’s favourite drug baron found himself in a trap of his own making. According to the
Gehenna
script, at this point it would only take a tiny push to topple Bazza over the edge. That push, fingers crossed,
would come from Skelley. After which Bazza would lose it completely.

Did Winter still believe it? Was he still signed up to
Gehenna
? He knew the answer was yes. Because, God help him, there was no alternative.

He was already turning in through Misty’s gate when he saw the Bentley. It was parked beneath the tree at the edge of the drive. The kitchen was at the back of the house, and Winter could see Mackenzie swivelling at the breakfast bar, alerted by the crunch of gravel outside. Shit.

He knew Bazza was at his most dangerous when nothing in the world seemed capable of upsetting him. He met Winter at the door, big smile, pumping handshake, the smell of fresh coffee on the go, even the tang of grilling bacon.

Misty was in the kitchen, reaching for an extra plate. As Winter had predicted, the kitchen was littered with cardboard boxes. Whatever else awaited them in Porec, they wouldn’t be short of glasses.

‘Mist tells me you’re off?’ Bazza couldn’t have been more affable.

‘Yeah.’ Winter shed his jacket. ‘It’s Trude, really.’

‘Likes the sunshine, does she?’

‘Always.’

‘Bit of a surprise, though, eh? Mist assumed you’d told me.’

‘Didn’t want to get in the way, Baz. No distractions. Not this week.’

‘Well done, son. Good darts. Everything for the cause, eh?’

Winter nodded. He was wondering about the surveillance guys. Were they parked up outside? Somewhere down the road? Had Bazza clocked them? He felt physically ill. Mackenzie was playing with him, goading him, setting him up. This was beyond dangerous. He had to do something. He had to somehow seize the initiative, restore – at the very least – a little self-respect.

‘If you want the truth, Baz, I’ve had enough. I said I’d see you through, and that’s what I’ve done.’

‘See me through to what, mush?’

‘Thursday. Election day. Whatever happens after that, you’re on your own.’

‘Is that right?’

Misty, still attending to the bacon, caught the change in tone. She glanced over her shoulder towards the breakfast bar. Winter could see the anxiety in her eyes. He turned back to Mackenzie.

‘Look on the bright side, Baz. You can flog this place now. Fuck knows, you need the money.’

Mackenzie ignored him. He was standing by the window now, gazing out.

‘We’ve been a good team,’ he said softly. ‘What do you think, Mist?’

‘Me and you, Baz?’

‘Me and Paulie here.’

‘The best, Baz. Totally the best.’

‘That’s what I think.’ He stepped back from the window. ‘So what do
you
think …’ there was no warmth in the smile ‘… Paulie?’

‘I think it’s been fun. But like I say, I think the time’s come to call it a day.’

‘Shame.’

‘Definitely.’

‘No regrets?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like …’ Winter frowned, then shook his head. ‘No way. I’m not going there.’

‘Where, Paulie?’ He’d come close now. The smell of mint on his breath was something new. All that campaigning, Winter thought vaguely. All those strangers you suddenly had to talk to.

‘Ketchup or brown sauce?’ Misty was trying to head Bazza off. It didn’t work.

‘It’s Westie, isn’t it? It’s fucking Westie that’s done it for you. Him and that girl of his? Couldn’t hack it, could you? Couldn’t just accept it was something that happened? People get hurt, mush. That’s life. People fuck up. They get in my face. And then they get hurt.’

‘You had them killed, Baz. You had them blown away. That’s not hurt.’

‘Whatever. It doesn’t matter, mush. It’s gone. It’s over, unless …’

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless I think different.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘No, you’re not, mush, are you? And I tell you something else. You’re fucking bricking yourself. I can smell it, mush. Any minute now you’re going to do what old men do. You’re going to dump in your kacks. And you know why? Because I frighten you shitless. Good. I’m glad. Because you fucking deserve it.’

He stared up at Winter for a long moment, then headed for the door. En route was an empty cardboard box. He gave it a kick, then turned round and strode back. His finger was in Winter’s face.

‘I don’t know what’s going on in that evil little brain of yours, mush, but you listen to me. I’m saying this once and once only. If you even think of dobbing me in with the Filth, you’ll end up like Westie. Except worse. Much worse. Westie was lucky.
Bam!
End of. For you, mush, I can dream up something really tasty. We understand each other? No? Then talk to Misty here. She knows exactly what I’m about.’

He turned on his heel again and left. Moments later came the slam of the front door. Winter watched the Bentley execute a savage turn, gravel kicking from the rear tyres. Then Mackenzie was gone.

Winter turned round to find Misty behind him. She was offering him a sandwich.

‘Can you manage a couple, pet?’ She did her best to smile. ‘Be a shame to waste them.’

Winter activated the emergency procedure in mid-afternoon. By now he was taking no chances. The scene with Bazza was a declaration of war. Surveillance worked both ways. He had to assume Mackenzie would detail someone to keep tabs on him.

‘Son?’ Winter was parked on the hard shoulder on the motorway. ‘There’s no way I can wear a wire tonight.’

‘You OK?’

‘No.’

‘Wanna talk about it?’

‘No.’

‘You’re telling me we’re blown?’

‘No. He’s still in play. But only just.’

‘Take care, eh? Nothing silly …’ Suttle rang off.

Skelley was due down from London between six and seven. On the phone Mackenzie had skipped the usual dinner invite. This was to be strictly business, no frills, no fraternising. Mackenzie sat in his office watching the early-evening news. Gordon Brown, it seemed, had at last thrown caution to the winds and come out with a barnstorming speech. Within hours, poor man, one of his own candidates had described him as the worst prime minister ever. Winter sank into the proffered seat, wondering aloud why anyone ever went into politics. The higher you got the more shit you had to take.

Bazza agreed. The venom and the anger had gone. He was quiet, almost reflective. For once his desk was empty of paperwork, and he’d abandoned the campaign suit for jeans and a loose cotton shirt. Famagusta, Winter thought.

‘How’s Trude?’ Bazza said at last.

‘Fine, Baz. On the mend.’

‘And up here?’ He tapped his head.

‘Frustrated as fuck. She wants everything back the way it was, but that’s going to take a while.’

‘But it’s going to happen, yeah?’

‘Probably.’

‘Probably’s not good enough.’

‘That’s what she says.’

‘I’m serious. If it takes some fancy operation, like I said before, I’m up for it. The offer’s still there.’

‘Thanks. I’m grateful.’

‘It’s not for you, mush. It’s for her. She’s my girl, always was.’

It was true. After years of shagging Misty Gallagher, Bazza had assumed that young Trude was his daughter. Years later a blood test had proved otherwise, assigning paternity to a motor trader called Mike Valentine, but Bazza still regarded himself as Trude’s honorary dad.

‘I’ll make sure we bring her round before we go, Baz.’

‘Do that, yeah?’ His eyes finally left the screen. ‘Old times’ sake?’

‘Of course.’

The waiting went on. A lengthy trailer detailed the treats in store for election junkies on Thursday night. Programming would start the moment the polls closed. By midnight it should be pretty clear who’d won.

‘Enjoyed it, Baz?’

‘Yeah, most of it. Until the fucking scrote vote turned up.’

‘I’m sure.’ Winter managed a grin. ‘I’m glad Tipner worked out, though.’

Mackenzie shot him a look, said nothing. Then he smiled.

‘Put them off the scent, did you?’

‘Of course. I knew the effort you’d put into the other place. Fort Nelson. Everyone deserves a break, even you, Baz.’

‘Fort Nelson was good.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘They’re running it tonight.’

The phone rang. Skelley was in reception. He seemed to have brought a colleague.

‘Show them in, love.’

Winter arranged the chairs in a semicircle around the desk. Moments later there was a knock at the door. Skelley was wearing a beautifully cut business suit that flattered his bulk. His companion, equally well dressed, was younger, fitter, black.

‘Sit down, gents. You’re welcome.’

The receptionist backed out of the office and closed the door. The TV was still on but Bazza muted the sound. Then he leaned forward and looked Skelley in the eye.