The Price Of Darkness (35 page)

‘But you’re his mother.’

‘Sure, and proud of it.’ She beamed at them both, that same big smile. ‘In fact
extremely
proud of it.’

THURSDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 2006.
17.09

 

Winter sat with Brodie, parked on the crest of Portsdown Hill. A stiffish wind was gusting up the face of the hill and a young girl with blonde hair was flying a scarlet kite, making it swoop and soar against the pale blue of the sky. Brodie had been watching her for some time now. She’d once had a kite, she said, as a kid. Her brother had borrowed it without asking and the thing had ended up entangled in power lines, miles from home. That was the day she’d decided to become a copper. Not because she had any great convictions about law and order but because she was sick of being ignored.

‘There, look.’ Winter hadn’t been listening. ‘That’s where it happened.’

He was pointing at a patch of scrubby turf a hundred metres down the hill. Earlier he’d described the night he’d been lifted by a bunch of young thugs in the badlands of Buckland. They’d pulled a bin liner over his head and driven round half the night before stripping him naked and dumping him.

Brodie had told him they were crazy to pull a stunt like that. Nearly as crazy as Winter himself for not reporting it.

‘They just drove off?’ She’d given up on the kite.

‘Yeah.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘Legged it down the hill. I knew I had to find a call box. They’d nicked everything - mobe, cash, clothes, the lot.’

‘And?’

‘I got hold of a mate. He came and picked me up. Can you believe that? Tucked up in someone’s front garden, waiting for him to arrive, stark fucking naked?’ He shook his head. The memory still made him faintly nauseous.

‘And you’re sure it was Bazza organised all that?’

‘Positive. He’s still got the photos.’

‘
Photos?
’ She was beginning to understand.

‘Loads of them. How would you feel? That kind of stuff going round?’

‘Exposed.’

‘Exactly.’ Winter was brooding now, unable to tear his eyes away from the neat line of avenues below. He could still feel the dampness of the pavement under his naked feet, still remember his terror that some insomniac, at three in the morning, might catch a glimpse of an overweight, middle-aged lunatic, not a stitch on, hurrying past. Total humiliation, he thought. And now the probability of worse to come.

‘How did you get into this game?’

‘I just told you. My brother nicked my kite.’

‘I meant U/C.’

‘Oh.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose I must have fancied it. My marriage had just packed up. I didn’t feel like being me for a while. I had a girlfriend who’d already qualified. It just seemed to make sense.’

‘And do you like it?’

‘Yeah, I do. You’re working out of area, of course, and there’s always the danger that you’re going to get dicked around by people who don’t know what they’re doing, but by and large … yeah … it’s OK.’ She helped herself to another of Winter’s toffees. ‘What about you?’

Winter didn’t answer for a while. He was thinking about his relationship with Gale Parsons. ‘Dicked around’ was a perfect description.

‘It’s different with me,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not U/C at all, not like you. There isn’t a villain in this town doesn’t know who I am.’

‘I know, I’ve been thinking about that. It must make it hard for you.’

‘Fucking impossible, if you want the truth.’

‘So why did you do it?’

‘Because I was asked to. And because I fancied it. At my age you’ve done pretty much everything. This was something new.’

‘And you think it’s working out?’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Too right it’s working out.’

‘You make it sound a problem.’

‘Do I?’ He glanced across at her, wondering whether to take the conversation any further, but decided it was a bad idea. Instead, he nodded at her mobile.

‘Give him another ring. We’re probably bottom of his list.’

Earlier, she’d belled the D/I in Basingstoke who was running her. She had three names they’d culled from the conversation with Nigel Evans and she wanted the D/I to run them through PNC.

The D/I apologised for not getting back quicker. He’d pinged the names through the Police National Computer but raised no hits. A check on the force Records Management System had also drawn a blank. One of the names, though, had rung a bell with him. He’d served a spell on the Southampton Major Crimes team and had a feeling that the guy might be worth checking out. He told her what he could remember and wished her good luck.

Brodie returned the phone to her bag.

‘Cesar Dobroslaw?’ She enquired.

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He’s Polish. Second generation. Runs some kind of import/export business. Lives in a huge pad at the back end of Chilworth.’

Winter was watching the girl with the kite. Chilworth was as close as Southampton got to Beverly Hills. He’d once made a bust there, following a load of Ecstasy tabs hand-delivered to a rave some fifteen-year-old had organised when her parents were away at their second home in Antibes. The swimming pool alone had been bigger than Winter’s back garden.

‘So why would this guy be suss?’

‘We’re not sure. There were rumours he was funding a girl trafficking racket. My guy says he’ll chase up a couple of contacts, get back to me.’

‘When?’

‘Soon as.’

Winter eyed the bag of toffees. He liked Brodie. She was far less uptight than most of the female officers he knew, and she seemed tuned in to the more absurd aspects of the job, which made her rarer still. They sat together in a companionable silence. The city lay below them, bathed in autumn sunshine. Winter could see the force spotter plane, Boxer One, flying slow figures of eight over the clutter of Fratton rooftops.

At length Brodie frowned. ‘What are we looking for here? Exactly? Only no one’s really told me.’

‘We’re looking to put Bazza under pressure.’

‘That’s easy. We just leave him to it. That man lives for pressure. He loves it, thrives on it. Take pressure away and he’ll be running on empty.’

‘I meant real pressure.’

‘Like?’

‘Like serious competition from the Scummers. Bazza’s a turf man. You’ve probably noticed. As far as he’s concerned the Scummers should stay in their cage.’

‘But we’re talking jet skis, not turf.’

‘It’s the same thing, love. Or it is if you happen to be Bazza. As far as he’s concerned, jet skis are now off-limits to everyone else. His brother died on one. That gives him sole rights. If it sounds barmy, that’s because it is. But that’s the way he works. Always has done. Always will.’

‘So how do we handle it? Take advantage?’

‘We keep pushing. This Southampton thing sounds like an open door to me. If some of the money, the sponsorship, turns out to be dodgy then no one’s going to be happier than Baz. He’s a Pompey boy. He’s spent half his life trying to screw the Scummers. If he’s ever going to do something silly, something
really
silly, then this is it.’

‘And that’s enough?’

‘As long as it’s indictable, and as long as it’s a lifestyle offence, sure. Favourite would be some kind of turf war. If we can nudge Baz towards this Polish guy, for instance, and if he was to lift some business off him - narcotics, girls - then we’d be laughing. We supply the evidence and the CPS take care of the rest of it. Baz is loaded. Twenty million quid and counting. There are blokes in our financial unit can’t wait to nick it all off him. And as I understand it, under POCA, they can do just that.’

POCA was the Proceeds of Crime Act, a ferociously effective piece of legislation that Winter had given up trying to understand. So-called lifestyle offences included drug or people trafficking, money laundering and pimping.

Brodie was deep in thought. She’d never been to Portsmouth before and the last day or two she’d started asking some serious questions. She nodded down at the view.

‘It’s a fortress really, isn’t it? Not a normal city at all.’

‘You’re right.’ Winter turned in the seat, indicated the line of red-brick battlements along the crest of the hill. ‘Some bloke built those in the nineteenth century. Same with the forts out on the water. Pompey was always up for a ruck. Nothing’s changed since.’

‘And Bazza?’

‘Born to it. Bred to it. Couldn’t be without it.’

‘Without what?’

‘Sticking it to the enemy.’

‘But what happens when he runs out?’

‘Of enemies?’ Winter laughed. ‘He won’t, love. And you know why? Because there’ll always be Scummers. Always. And that, deep down, makes blokes like Bazza very, very happy.’

‘You like him really, don’t you?’ It was Brodie’s turn to laugh.

‘Bazza?’ Winter sat back, suddenly reflective. ‘Yeah, you’re right, in a way I do.’

 

Willard descended on Faraday’s office beside the
Billhook
incident room at half past five, fuming at the traffic outside. He’d left Kingston Crescent nearly an hour ago. This was no way to run a city.

‘Happens all the time, sir. As you might remember.’

‘Never as bad as this, Joe. Ever.’

Jimmy Suttle had beaten a discreet retreat. The Head of CID helped himself to the empty seat, then nodded at the open door. Faraday closed it.

‘How’s it going?’

Faraday couldn’t make up his mind if this was simply a state visit. Willard liked to get around, press the flesh, put the fear of God up the troops. Half an hour of motivational small talk, and he was normally gone.

‘It’s fine, sir. Cramped, but we make do.’

‘Good. Progress?’

Faraday told him about the Mercedes over in Southampton, about the boy Dermott O’Keefe. The link to Port Solent was lawyer-proof. CCTV, witness statements, even his own mother. The fact that the car was nicked had to be down to O’Keefe.

‘Of course, Joe. Of course. Good work. But where does that leave us with Mallinder?’

‘We don’t know, sir. Not yet.’

‘Martin Barrie seems to think it might have been opportunistic. The boy saw the car, saw his chance and took it. No connection to Mallinder at all.’

‘Mr Barrie may be right.’ Faraday shrugged. ‘But he’s yet to explain the missing keys. Scenes of Crime looked everywhere. So did Mallinder’s wife. The fact was, they’d gone. Are we seriously suggesting there were
two
break-ins that night? One to kill Mallinder? Another to nick his car keys?’

‘It’s possible. Anything’s possible. You know that, Joe. All I’m asking for is a sequence of events, proved beyond reasonable doubt.’

Willard was enjoying this, Faraday could see it in his eyes. Nothing pleased him more than a round or two of devil’s advocate, a game on which he seemed to have based his entire career. Faraday’s next move was obvious to both of them.

‘Then there’s the CCTV. On the Monday night the lad turns up alone in a nicked Escort. A different set of pictures puts him in the cinema, leaving a late-night showing with an older guy. Later, after Mallinder’s probably dead, we can evidence two blokes leaving in that same car. It’s odds-on that one of them is Dermott O’Keefe.’

‘And the other?’

‘Probably the older guy. The Escort is torched that same night in the New Forest. The next day we find Mallinder dead and the Mercedes keys missing. Two nights later, the Mercedes is nicked. And guess who’s at the wheel.’

‘OK, Joe.’ Willard nodded. ‘So we’re looking at a really professional hit. Let’s just assume it’s your older guy. What on earth is he doing nicking the keys to the Mercedes? Taking a risk like that?’

‘Maybe he didn’t nick the keys. Maybe the kid did, Dermott.’

‘And never told him?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what kind of relationship are we looking at here?’

‘Good question, sir. And as soon as we find Dermott O’Keefe I hope I’ll be able to give you an answer.’

Briefly, he outlined the steps he was taking to trace the youth. Willard remained unconvinced.

‘But it still doesn’t work, Joe, does it? We assume the hit is down to some kind of contract killer. You’re suggesting he takes a
kid
along with him? Are you serious?’

Willard let the question hang between them. Faraday reminded him that anything was possible. Then he changed the subject. He wanted to know about
Polygon.

‘It’s a mess, Joe, to be frank. We’re between a rock and a hard place. We’re grinding away for a result, as ever. The lads are putting in the hours, we’ve got lines of enquiry running God knows where, but always there’s a cop-out.’

‘Terrorists?’

‘Exactly. Don’t get me wrong. It may turn out that our London friends are right. It may be that some al-Qaeda cell tossed a coin and decided that the Procurement Minister was due a head job, and why not Pompey, but somehow I still can’t see it. This is home-grown, Joe. Not that it makes me popular in certain circles to say it.’

‘You can evidence that?’

‘Of course I bloody can’t.’

‘Then why … ?’ Faraday left the sentence unfinished. It pleased him to be able to play Willard at his own game.

Willard shook his massive head. He had a limited sense of humour and it certainly didn’t extend to letting D/Is wind him up. He unbuttoned his jacket. Shifted his weight in Suttle’s chair. Lowered his voice.

‘There’s something else we need to talk about.’

‘Sir?’

‘Paul Winter. You know about the DUI charge? Albert Road?’

‘Of course.’

‘I imagine you probably guessed that there was more to that incident than met the eye. And … ah … if you
did
guess, then you guessed right. Are you with me?’

Faraday shook his head. He didn’t want to hear any of this.

‘No, sir. I’m not.’