The Price Of Darkness (21 page)

Winter gave the question some thought. These last few days he was beginning to get irritated by having to explain himself again and again but with Misty it was somehow different. He’d known her for years, and that knowledge had bred something close to respect. You underestimated Misty Gallagher at your peril, a mistake you only made once.

‘Mist …’ he began.

She looked up, her attention caught by something new in his voice.

‘Yeah?’

‘If I was to tell you the truth, what would you say?’

‘Are we talking secrets here?’ She’d abandoned her breasts for a moment. ‘Only this could be awkward. Me and Baz … you know.’

‘Not secrets, Mist. Just the truth.’

‘OK.’ She nodded. She was looking puzzled. ‘Go on then.’

Winter eyed the food a moment. He wanted to confide in her. He wanted to tell her how tough this whole thing was. He wanted to explain something of the confusion that boiled inside his aching head. Nothing to do with Covert Ops and ambitious D/Is eager to win a medal or two at his expense. Nothing to do with the hideous complications of this double life of his. But something far simpler. Just who the fuck was he?

He tried the question out, unvoiced. Then he shook his head. He’d sound like an adolescent. He’d remind her of Bazza’s gelled-up nephew with his giddy little ways.

‘Those pictures …’ he began.

‘What about them, love?’

‘It was more than … you know … what you think. It was more than that.’

‘I’m not with you. They were having a laugh, weren’t they?’

‘Yeah, sure … but it didn’t feel that way.’

‘No? You’re telling me they scared you?’

‘Yeah. Definitely. It wasn’t the obvious. I didn’t think I was in for a battering. They’d never have done anything, you know, really silly. I knew that. No …’ He shook his head. ‘It was something else.’

‘Like what?’

‘I just felt …’ he frowned ‘… exposed. Not in the naked way. Not freezing my bollocks off. Just … stripped bare.’

‘You mean vulnerable.’

‘Yeah, exactly,
vulnerable
.’

‘And now?’

‘The same. Exactly the same. And you know why? Because for once in my life I’ve no idea what happens next. Do you have any idea how scary that is, Mist? I’m a copper. I’ve made things happen. I’ve had my way with people. Apart from the tumour, I’ve bossed every single corner of my life since forever. Now all that’s gone. Now someone else is in charge.’

‘And who’s that?’

‘Good question, Mist. But it certainly isn’t fucking me.’

He turned away, surprised and slightly embarrassed by the force of his feelings. She gazed at him a moment, then extended a hand.

‘Help me up,’ she said.

Winter did her bidding. The palm of her hand was slippery with oil. Then he felt her arms encircling his body, the moistness of her breasts pressing softly against his chest, her fingers cupping the back of his head. Everything smelled of coconut.

‘I don’t know what to say, Mist.’

‘Say nothing, love.’ Her mouth was close to his ear. ‘But take advice from someone who knows, eh?’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Don’t fuck us about.’

MONDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER 2006.
10.01

 

Martin Barrie had fixed the appointment over the weekend. The Duty Officer in Downing Street had passed on his request and the bid for an interview had pinballed around the party machine until a special adviser in the Ministry of Education and Skills phoned him back. She was happy to talk to detectives from the
Billhook
squad about Jonathan Mallinder. She understood the interview was strictly for the purposes of background information. She’d had sight of the file and she wasn’t anticipating a lengthy meeting. On the contrary, they might find themselves spending more time trying to fix themselves a decent coffee than discussing the degree of Mr Mallinder’s political involvement.

Barrie had passed on the conversation more or less word for word but Faraday only remembered the reference to coffee when he and Suttle stepped into the pokey House of Commons office and saw the state of the percolator.

‘I’ll settle for tea, thanks,’ he said, shedding his coat.

The special adviser had been camping in the office during the parliamentary recess and apologised again for the state of the place. Her name was Suzanne. She wore a permanent air of near-exhaustion and had a nervous habit of constantly referring to notes on her clipboard. Top of her priority list, thought Faraday, should have been a decent holiday.

Faraday wanted to confirm a timeline. Suttle’s earlier analysis of e-mails from Mallinder’s laptop had established correspondence dating back to 2003.

‘That’s right.’ Suzanne had swapped the clipboard for a buff file with Mallinder’s name in black Pentel across the top. ‘Someone from membership contacted him in June that year. We were trawling for donations.’

‘He was a member of the party?’

‘Lapsed.’ Her finger found an entry in the file. ‘He joined before the 97 election, paid his subs until 2001, then sent us a letter saying he was holding off for a while. That’s a pretty common story, I’m afraid. Talk to the Tories and you’ll find they have exactly the same problem.’

‘So why chase him for a donation? If he wasn’t even a member?’

‘Because someone passed on a tip. Said it might be worth the price of a stamp.’

‘And who might that someone be?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

The party’s tap on Mallinder’s shoulder was successful. In August 2003, he renewed his membership, wrote a cheque for a £4,000 donation, and accepted an invitation to attend a breakfast meeting with senior New Labour figures on the second morning of the annual conference, down in Bournemouth.

‘Any idea who he talked to?’

‘It doesn’t say. He’d be one of at least a hundred invited guests, maybe more. Normally we try and sprinkle the senior people around, get them to circulate, but it’s not always easy.’

‘How senior?’

‘Cabinet level.’ She forced a weary smile. ‘If he was really lucky.’

‘Secretary of State for Defence?’ It was Suttle.

‘It’s possible. Or, failing him, one of the junior ministers. It really depends on everyone’s schedule. Conference week can be mad.’

‘But would there be a record?’

‘I don’t know. It’s certainly not in here …’ She nodded down at the file.

Suttle made a note. Faraday wanted to know whether there’d have been other opportunities for Mallinder to bend a ministerial ear.

‘Someone from the MoD, you mean? At conference?’

‘Yes.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘What about back in London?’

‘He could try. Just like everyone else.’ Her eye strayed to the file again. ‘Is there a particular issue you have in mind?’

Faraday didn’t answer. Instead, he wanted to know about Mallinder’s interest in City Academies. This time Suzanne was date-perfect.

‘He approached us about a year ago, in August 2005. I gather he’d bumped into someone at a party. They’d been telling him about the Business Academy down in Bexley. He wanted to talk to somebody at the Ministry about the next tranche of projects.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I agreed to meet him.’

‘
You
did?’

‘Yes. I’ve been shadowing the Academies programme for a couple of years. I’m pretty much up to speed, certainly as far as this kind of contact was concerned. It was a very provisional enquiry. A fishing expedition, really.’

‘And did you get the impression that Mallinder was serious?’

‘In some respects, yes. But that really wasn’t very helpful. He made all the right noises educationally. He was keen on coming up with a more balanced curriculum, for instance. I remember that very well. And he also ticked all the right boxes when it came to the community regeneration stuff. But when we got down to it, there turned out to be a problem.’

‘Which was?’

‘He didn’t have the money.’

Suttle tried to hide a smile. Even Faraday looked faintly amused.

‘Did this come as a surprise?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you check out these individuals beforehand?’

‘Of course we do, but detailed financial data isn’t always easy to get hold of. In these situations we tend to rely on people’s good faith, and most of the time that works. Mr Mallinder, I’m afraid, was an exception.’

Faraday recalled a key line from Suttle’s intelligence analysis, highlighted in yellow on the brief he’d e-mailed across.

‘I understand there was another meeting back in February this year. By this time your colleagues appeared to be discussing a project in some detail. Down in Portsmouth.’

‘That’s right. I was involved in that too.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Mr Mallinder had laid hands on two and a half million pounds.’

‘Where from?’

‘I gather it was a bank loan. Secured on his business.’

‘Did you see the paperwork?’

‘Not personally.’

‘But someone else did?’

‘Of course. Otherwise we’d never have got that far. I think there was some talk of him making the party a loan to begin with, but for some reason that didn’t work out so we started talking about the Academies programme.’

‘And this project was going to happen?’

‘We thought so, yes. In fact Portsmouth looked a prime candidate. At least one of the comprehensives down there had been a failing school and results across the board weren’t wonderful.’

‘I have a note that Mallinder described himself as “excited”.’

‘He was. That’s right. In fact we all were. But then the Department started having second thoughts.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Because there turned out to be difficulties in Portsmouth. To put it bluntly, we had to back off.’

‘And was Mallinder happy with that?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘So he withdrew his offer?’

‘It lapsed.’ The smile was weary. ‘Just like his membership. ’

Naturally, she said, they’d tried to table alternative projects in other cities across the country but Mallinder hadn’t been interested. As far as he was concerned, it was Portsmouth or nothing.

‘Do you know why?’

‘I understand he was planning to move down there.’

‘To live, you mean?’

‘Yes. And under those circumstances I can understand the logic of his position. He said he wanted to be hands-on, which is of course what we try to encourage. The press just love knocking the Academy programme but the real driver, believe me, is the kids. They respond so well. In fact they
love
the idea. In education that kind of enthusiasm is hard to find. Especially at secondary level.’

Faraday had no interest in discussing the philosophy of education. He wanted to talk about the Ministry of Defence. Had Mallinder ever raised the issue of access?

‘I’m not with you.’

‘Did he ever ask for meetings with ministers or senior civil servants within the MoD?’

‘Not to me, no.’

‘He never mentioned the Estates Department?’

‘No.’

‘Did he ever ask anyone else, to your knowledge?’

‘I’ve no idea. I work for the DfES. Defence isn’t my field.’ She was beginning to get visibly irritated. ‘I don’t see where any of this is going, Mr Faraday. What point are you trying to make?’

‘I’m suggesting that Mallinder’s money may have come with strings.’

‘Strings?’

‘Yes. That he may have wanted some kind of deal. He’s a property developer. He’s active in Portsmouth. The Ministry of Defence occupy a lot of land in the city. In the right hands some of that land could be extremely valuable. So here he is, suddenly offering you a large sum of money, and I’m simply wondering why. It’s the kind of question we tend to ask ourselves. I’m afraid it comes with the job.’

‘I’m sure.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘The rest of this morning is looking like a nightmare. This has been absolutely fascinating but I don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you. So …’ she forced a smile ‘… are we through?’

 

Winter ducked out of Waterloo Station, deciding to walk the half-mile or so to the Savoy Hotel. Bazza had phoned him first thing in a state of some excitement. A woman called Katherine Brodie had been in touch by e-mail. She seemed to run some kind of media agency. She’d picked up rumours of a planned jet ski extravaganza somewhere on the south coast, and she’d be interested in further details. It would be a pleasure, she’d said, to buy Mr Mackenzie lunch.

‘At the Savoy bloody Grill.’ Bazza had been laughing. ‘And she’s in the chair.’

Winter had never been to the Savoy. He’d logged on to the website, lingering over the virtual tour, and now he tried to spot the terrace overlooking the Thames as he crossed Hungerford Bridge. A maze of streets off the Strand led him to the front entrance. A uniformed concierge, sweating in the heat, directed him to the restaurant. At midday he was half an hour early so he found himself a perch in the neighbouring bar, shook open his copy of the
Daily Telegraph
, and turned his attention to the court reports.

‘Mr Winter?’

Katherine Brodie was a lightly tanned woman in her mid-thirties. The grey two-piece suit gave her a slightly severe air but she had a warm smile and lips that Winter had last seen on a porn queen. Bazza, he knew at first glance, would love her.

They went through to the restaurant. A table for three awaited them beside the window. Winter settled himself into the chair with the best view and debated whether to stick to San Miguel or go for something else. Already he felt totally at home.

‘I’m having a spritzer. You, Paul?’

Winter settled for a large gin and tonic. Mackenzie, he explained, would be joining them as soon as the last of his morning meetings permitted. With luck, there might still be some food left by then.