The Price Of Darkness (8 page)

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

Faraday was watching him carefully. ‘The lease he took on the house in Port Solent,’ he said. ‘That tells me he was down here a good deal.’

‘He was. And renting was much cheaper than hotels.’

‘So how often did he come down?’

‘A couple of times a week. Some weeks less, some weeks more.’

‘And you always compared notes afterwards? You were in the loop? You knew what was going on?’

‘Yeah, more or less. I was never his keeper. That wasn’t the way it worked. But yes, he kept me up to speed.’

‘So why so much time down here?’

‘Tipner, mainly.’

‘Which you couldn’t understand.’

‘Which I didn’t fancy. It’s a judgement call. We had a difference of professional opinion, that’s all.’

‘But I still don’t get it, Mr Benskin. Here’s a guy whose judgement you really respect. He doesn’t make mistakes, not big mistakes. So there has to be a reason, doesn’t there? About the strength of his interest in the Tipner site?’

With some reluctance, Benskin nodded. Tracy Barber cleared her throat. Her voice was low.

‘The man’s dead, Mr Benskin. The least you owe him is an answer.’

‘OK.’ He frowned, taking his time. ‘Jonno believed he was on the verge of some kind of breakthrough. He believed he could turn the deal around. Frankly, I thought he was talking bollocks.’

‘What kind of breakthrough?’

‘All the serious profit in the Tipner site is residential. As it is, there’s a big problem. Partly social housing again, partly the way the planners have zoned the place. But there’s a big piece of land next door, acres and acres of it, right by the harbour. At the moment it’s used as a firing range. If the MoD were to release it, you’re looking at a prime, prime site.’

‘And the Ministry of Defence?’

‘They’ve always said no. They’d barely even discuss it.’

‘But Mallinder?’

‘Jonno thought otherwise. He said they could be convinced. And he said he was the guy to do it.’

‘Having acquired the site from the current developers? ’

‘We hadn’t got that far, nowhere near. But yes, you’re right, that was the plan, that’s the way it would have to go.’

‘And you’d benefit from this sudden windfall?’

‘Obviously. And Jonno was right. It would have meant a lot of money.’

Faraday asked about paperwork, about files Mallinder would have kept on the Tipner project, about names and contacts and detailed records of meetings he’d attended. Benskin said he’d organise it, send the stuff down.

By now, mid-morning, he was plainly anxious to leave, but Faraday hadn’t finished. He wanted to know about the last couple of weeks, about any signs of stress or tension he might have noticed in his partner, about possible pressures in Mallinder’s private life - in short, about any tiny clue that might explain the small black-smudged hole in his forehead.

At each question Benskin shook his head. Jonno lived for his work and his family. He was about to move house to a bigger place in Wentworth. He was looking forward to their planned expansion into foreign markets, chiefly Spain. At this Faraday pressed for more detail, but Benskin was unforthcoming. Plans were still at an early stage. They were looking at a number of possibilities in terms of partnership but even an outline contract was at least six months away.

At length, after nearly two hours, Faraday called a halt. Should the need arise, he’d be back for more detail, perhaps another interview. Benskin, on his feet now, said nothing. Tracy Barber escorted him back downstairs to the front desk, returning minutes later to find Faraday gazing out of the window. A pair of distant rooks over the motorway were mobbing a bird she could barely see.

‘It’s a kestrel.’ Faraday turned round. ‘Punchy, wasn’t he?’

WEDNESDAY, 6 SEPTEMBER 2006.
12.23

 

Winter went back to Portsmouth on the train. Mackenzie had offered him a lift but a couple of hours of headbanging after Deano got on his bike and roared off had left Winter with a yearning for a bit of peace and quiet. In these moods Bazza was out of control.

Winter, to his alarm, had been saddled with the task of making the Mackenzie Trophy come true. At first, listening to his new boss back at the station, he’d wrongly assumed that this wild idea was nothing more than a particularly violent blast of wind in the hurricane that was Bazza’s life. He’d probably been thinking about Mark. Someone had mentioned Pompey’s appetite for staging big events. Someone else had been talking about jet skis. And suddenly, hey presto, there it was: the Mackenzie Trophy. Immortality for Mark, poor bastard, lots of profile for Bazza and a big leg-up for the family name.

In the way of things, Winter would have expected nothing less. Mackenzie had a brain like a firework display, forever sending up volley after volley of fizzing little schemes, and people who knew him well simply closed their eyes, put their hands over their ears, and waited for the rocket sticks to fall to earth. Once in a while, to be fair, he’d see to it that one of these wheezes actually came to something. The Royal Trafalgar Hotel, now the showpiece of the Mackenzie empire, had started life as a gleam in Bazza’s eye. As had a couple of café-bars, a chain of tanning salons, an estate agency, a taxi firm, a double-glazing outfit and even a North End pet shop that specialised in exotic reptiles. But the Mackenzie Trophy?

Winter shook his head, watching the blur of stations as London’s outer suburbs slowly thinned. Maybe it was down to Mark, he thought. Maybe Baz genuinely wanted to somehow commemorate his brother’s death. Or maybe it was something more complex, Bazza’s way of coping with all that grief. Dream up a monster stunt like this, push it hard, make it happen, and there’d be precious little time left for feeling sorry for himself.

Whatever the truth, Winter was well and truly kippered. With Deano gone, Bazza had got down to business. To Winter’s horror, he’d produced a checklist of steps he wanted actioned. This in itself was evidence that the Mackenzie Trophy was something more than a passing fantasy, and Winter’s heart sank as Bazza led him through the unfolding plan.

First off, he wanted the locals on board. Given ample support from the QHM, Winter was to sort out the RNLI, the SSA, the RYA and the PHE. Faced with this nonsense, Winter had briefly perked up. Bazza was taking the piss. He knew about the life Winter had just left. He knew that coppers battled daily against a blizzard of initials. This was his little joke, a touch on the elbow, a matey way of making him feel comfortable in his new role.

Far from it. The Royal National Lifeboat Institution, the Solent Skiers Association, the Royal Yachting Association and an outfit called Portsmouth Harbour Events all needed a call. One by one, Winter was to recruit them for the cause. That done, he was to talk to the city council. These people loved publicity, especially free publicity. A big stunt like this would bring thousands of punters flooding in, especially once Winter had explained about the media coverage.

Media coverage?
He’d tried to bring Bazza back to earth. There and then, over his second hot chocolate, he’d tried to bring this madness to a halt. He knew bugger all about the media. He had no contacts in television and precious few anywhere else. Even in Pompey his knowledge of local journalism didn’t extend beyond a couple of pretty young
News
reporters whom he’d occasionally tapped up for favours.

Bazza had dismissed him out of hand.

‘Bollocks, mush,’ he’d said. ‘This is like pyramid selling. You start with the QHM, with the guys on the water. Then you rope in the council. Once you’ve done that, it sells itself. The boys at Sky will be
throwing
money at you. Then you talk to Eurosport, Channel Four, ITV, whoever. You get an auction going. You start thinking international rights, airline rights, video streaming. You know what, mush? Play it right, and we’re looking at a fucking great
profit.
Every cloud, eh?
’

Winter was appalled. By the time Bazza got to the end of his must-do list, he knew that he was staring disaster in the face. He was an ex-copper, for Christ’s sake, not some Pompey hustler trying to turn a fatal accident into a huge media event. He’d joined forces with Bazza on the promise that there’d be room for his special skills, his contacts, his experience. Not this pantomime.

Bazza, of course, had seen the expression on his face.

‘You think you’re not up to it?’

‘I know I’m not up to it.’

‘You’re wrong. You think it’s a crap idea?’

‘I think it’s bizarre.’

‘You’re right. But so was
Big Brother
and look what happened to that.’

The link between
Big Brother
and Bazza’s latest baby was lost on Winter but as Mackenzie slid the list across the table, he knew they’d got to a point of no return. If he didn’t pick up this piece of paper, his brief relationship with the Bazza Mackenzie organisation was over. With untold consequences.

‘This is crazy,’ he’d muttered, folding the list and slipping it into his jacket pocket.

Now, sitting on the half-empty train, he tried hard not to visualise what lay ahead. Endless phone calls, e-mails, meetings. Arms to be twisted. Ears to be bent. With luck and a generous helping of bullshit, he could cope with the Pompey end of things. But what would happen when he took on the bigger boys in London? The TV people? The media agents? All those savvy guys who held the keys to sponsorship? How on earth could he set about shafting them when he didn’t have a clue what language they spoke?

He sat back and closed his eyes. A situation like this, it paid to have a mate or two, someone you could drag out for a drink to share your troubles. In the job for most of his adult life, he’d done without friends, glorying in his canteen reputation as the loner, the maverick, the bloke who scored result after result without all that teamwork bollocks and broke most of the rules in the process. The knowledge that most of his colleagues found him deeply irritating had never failed to please him, and on his last day he’d left the force without even considering a farewell pint or two, but now - after a couple of hours of Bazza at full throttle - he began to regret his lack of mates.

He thought some more about it, about the absence of good-luck cards, phone calls, text messages, about the sheer thickness of the wall that had so abruptly sealed him off from his previous life, and as the train slowed for the stop at Guildford, he fumbled for his mobile. Jimmy Suttle’s number was stored on the SIM card. This time of day the boy would be up to his eyes. When the recorded voice cut in, telling him to leave a message, he wondered whether he shouldn’t just forget it. Then he changed his mind.

‘It’s me - Paul,’ he muttered. ‘You free tonight?’

 

D/C Jimmy Suttle was a couple of hours late by the time he finally made it to Port Solent. Scenes of Crime were still ripping No. 97 Bryher Island apart and so the Family Liaison Officer had made arrangements to rent a room at the nearby Tulip Hotel for the day. The room was on the fourth floor and the door opened at once to Suttle’s knock. The last time he’d seen D/C Jessie Williams, she’d been throwing up over the back of a chartered cruise boat on a CID night out.

‘Everything OK?’ Suttle could hear a low mumble of conversation from the bedroom behind her.

‘She’s got the telly on. Do you mind if I push off for a break?’

‘Not at all. How is she?’

‘Fine.’ Jessie shot him a look.

Suttle stayed in the corridor while Jessie went into the bedroom, explained about her colleague and asked whether she needed anything from downstairs. Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Sally Mallinder was sitting on the bed with her back against the headboard, watching three people discussing a carriage clock. She was a striking woman, middle-aged, blonde. She’d kicked off her shoes and made herself comfortable, her bare feet tucked beneath her. She was wearing a loose cotton shirt outside a pair of blue culottes and was very obviously pregnant.

‘
Cash in the Attic.
’ She nodded at the screen. ‘I never miss it.’

Suttle, for a brief moment, was nonplussed. He’d come to inquire about a murder, not watch daytime TV.

‘Do you mind?’ He bent to the set and turned it off.

Before she had a chance to protest, he pulled up a chair and sat down. Half an hour ago he’d debriefed the D/C who’d managed to establish a name for Mallinder’s regular visitor. She was a Bengali prostitute called Aliyah, and with luck she’d be volunteering herself for interview at Kingston Crescent at some point this afternoon. For now, though, Suttle needed a domestic angle on the dead man.

‘Can I just say, Mrs Mallinder—’

‘How sorry you are? Sure. Of course. Thank you.’ She was still looking at the blankness of the screen. At length she glanced across at Suttle. ‘So what do you want to know?’

‘It’s about your husband, obviously. In cases like these we try and establish a sequence of events leading up to what happened. It’s just a start, that’s all.’

She said she understood. Jonathan had left home around half eight on Monday morning. He’d dropped the kids at school and given her a ring from his mobile around lunchtime. Everything had seemed perfectly normal. He was cheerful about the meeting he’d just had and said he’d probably be back some time late tomorrow afternoon.

‘That’s
yesterday
afternoon,’ she added.

‘Of course.’ Suttle had his notepad on his lap. ‘Did he say anything else about the meeting?’

‘No. But then he never went into details. Jonathan was a man who lived his life in boxes. Business was box one. We were box two.’

‘Second best?’

‘Alphabetical order.’ She looked away. ‘Though sometimes, I admit, it was hard to tell.’

Suttle scribbled himself a note. Bitterness was like a bad smell, he thought. You couldn’t miss it.