Beyond Reach (22 page)

Even Parsons laughed. ‘They actually
said
that? Kyle Munday? Paulgrove’s
finest
?’

‘According to Suttle, yes.’

‘That’s bizarre.’

‘Exactly, boss. And that’s my point. This whole thing’s bizarre. It’s a no-brainer. The kids were in the wrong.’

‘You’re telling me they stabbed themselves?’

‘Of course not. The Chinese went way over the top. No one’s defending what they did, but under the circumstances you can see why it happened. And so will a jury. A couple of years for manslaughter, max.’

Parsons shook her head. Faraday thought he detected a hint of pity in her eyes, as well as impatience.

‘You don’t get it do you, Joe?’

‘Get what, boss?’

‘This whole thing. The Blue Dragon. The death threats. The girl’s mother talking to the press. We’re into something else now. We’re into pressure groups, politics, media coverage. I can name you dozens of people in the city that are going to make a real meal of this. They’re going to tell us that things are out of control. They’re going to be using words like chaos and anarchy, and you know who’s going to carry the can for all that? Us. They’re going to say we’ve lost our grip. They’re going to tell us we’ve sold them short. We live in a democracy, God help us. He who shouts loudest wins. It’s perception that counts, Joe. As Mr Willard has already pointed out.’

He who shouts loudest wins.
Faraday, for once, was impressed.

‘Maybe they’re right,’ he said softly.

‘About what?’

‘About the anarchy and the chaos. It’s not the big things. It’s not the Blue Dragon. It’s everything else.’

‘Low-level social disorder? Kids mouthing off in the street?’ She dismissed him with a shake of her head. ‘That’s ASBO territory. People accept that now. It’s mood music. It’s what you put up with.’

‘Sure. And it leads to this.’

‘Wrong. It leads to lots of people, decent people, getting into a state about the way times have changed. We can do nothing about that, Joe. Absolutely nothing. No one breaks the law by leaving school without a clue about anything. No one comes to our attention because they’re foul-mouthed yobs who wouldn’t know a waste-paper bin from a hole in the road. No one goes to court because they push past old people in the bus queue. That’s just the way things are. But tonight was different, Joe. Tonight upped the ante. And you don’t need me to tell that there will be consequences.’ She raised her hands, a gesture that was both a warning and an apology.

Faraday fought to contain his temper. Seldom had he felt so angry.

‘You mentioned a coping policy,’ he said carefully.

‘That’s right. It’s Mr Willard’s phrase, not mine. He’s driving down from London.’ She offered Faraday a cold smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to make yourself available.’

 

Marie answered the door to Winter’s knock. Bazza, she said, was in his den. Apart from a demand for a bottle of Scotch, she’d heard nothing from him all evening. Bad sign.

‘He told you about Ezzie?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘I think the kiss is interesting.’

Winter knew the way to the den. Mackenzie was sitting in his favourite recliner, watching last weekend’s Cup Final. Thousands of copies of the souvenir DVD had been snapped up across the city. Pompey’s moment in the Wembley sun.

‘Good for the blood pressure, mush.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘There’s Black Label on the side there.’

Winter helped himself. He tried to avoid alcohol at moments like these but knew that Bazza wouldn’t have it. Sharing the secret of the Baiona project was a big step for a man who trusted nobody. The least he owed him was a drink.

‘Cheers, Baz.’ Winter made himself comfortable in the other chair. Sylvain Distin had just scythed down a Cardiff attacker. In due course, when it suited him, Mackenzie would raise the issue of business. Until then, Winter’s sole responsibility was to wait.

It came sooner than he’d expected. David James was flat on his arse in the Pompey goal.

‘Just after we talked, mush, I went through the paperwork.’

‘On the project?’

‘Yeah. There’s a whole bunch of stuff but the key to it all is the contract. That’s the one Ez drafted herself. It went through umpteen fucking versions but we ended up with pretty much what we wanted.’

‘Is it signed?’

‘No, but that’s not the point. It’s gone, mush. She must have lifted it.’

‘Doesn’t she have a copy herself?’

‘No. I insisted everything was kept here.’ He nodded at the safe in the corner of the room. ‘But she knows the combination so she could help herself any time. Marie says she was over yesterday. They had a little chat. She must have nicked it then.’

‘Why?’

‘You tell me. She’s got power of signature. Worst case, she’s trying to close the deal.’

He glanced across at Winter and nodded. A third of a bottle of Scotch couldn’t disguise the anxiety in his eyes. Mackenzie seldom panicked. You didn’t build a twenty-million-pound business by being a wuss. But now was different.

Winter was trying to compute the possibilities.

‘Who else needs to sign?’

‘The hotel owner and our new friend. Plus witnesses, lawyers, all the usual shit.’

‘So where are they?’

‘Good question. I’ve belled our friend twice this evening. No answer from his mobe or his landline. The owner is a spic. He lives in Vigo. Half an hour ago his wife said he was having dinner in town with a couple of buddies.’

‘Might your new friend be down there with him?’

‘In Spain, you mean?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sure. It’s possible.’

‘And Ezzie?’

‘You’re right. She might be there too. Fuck, she might be one of them. Little get-together. Little ceremony. Couple of bottles of bubbly. Contracts on the table. Pens at the ready. Just sign on the dotted line. Done.’ He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Shit …’

There was a long silence, broken by a roar from the Wembley crowd. Kanu had just slipped the ball into the Cardiff net. Mackenzie watched the Pompey fans erupt, fields of blue shirts swept by the sweet anticipation of victory. Then he turned to Winter again. ‘That would be enough, wouldn’t it? That’s all they’d need? Her name on the contract?’

‘Yeah. Ezzie’s a co-director of the company. She’s assisting your new friend to retain his benefit from criminal conduct. She’s supposed to have checked out where that money came from. So should you. The money’s dirty, Baz. Under the money-laundering laws, you’re wide open to prosecution.’

‘And then what? Assuming they got a result in court?’

‘They come looking. You’re connected with a criminal lifestyle offence. They crawl all over you. If the court convicts, then every penny, every brick, is dodgy and it’s down to you to prove it’s not. Even if you’re acquitted, or the CPS bottle out on a prosecution, SOCA can still have you through civil recovery proceedings.’

‘
Everything?
The whole fucking caboodle?’

‘The lot.’

‘That could
all
go?’

‘Yeah.’

Mackenzie returned his attention to the screen but Winter wasn’t fooled for a second. It was moments like these that he missed the reach he’d had in the Job. The ability to lift a phone and initiate checks on the airlines. The chance to put together a target’s movements before they even arrived at their destination. Then a thought occurred to him.

‘Ezzie went this afternoon?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How did she get to the airport?’

Mackenzie stared at him a moment, then blinked. ‘She’d have called a cab. She’d have used Speedy. Bound to have done. How fucking thick am I?’

Speedy was a Pompey cab company, the much-loved child of a 6.57 stalwart called Grant Percy. Since Christmas it had belonged to Mackenzie.

He reached for the phone. The dispatcher worked from premises above a chemist in Fratton. Mackenzie recognised her voice.

‘Cheryl? Baz. You got today’s fares handy?’ He waited for her to access the tally of bookings, his eyes still glued to the Cup Final. It took her several minutes to find Esme’s name. Then she was back on the line.

‘Where, love?’ He was frowning. ‘OK … cheers.’

He put the phone down then let his head sink back against the softness of the leather squab. Winter knew already that it was bad news.

‘Heathrow?’ he suggested.

‘Gatwick, mush. The driver’s name is Gerri Madeley. 33a Wallace Road. Get round there. See what Ez had to say for herself.’

 

Willard was in the worst of moods. He’d been en route to a private dinner in Kingston upon Thames when Gail Parsons phoned him with the news from Paulsgrove. At first he’d driven on, telling her to keep him briefed. Only when he tuned to BBC Five Live and picked up the breaking news reports did he stop the car and turn round.

Now, he stepped into Faraday’s office and shut the door. At the weekend the Major Crime Department was virtually empty. Normally, Willard seized control of every meeting he attended, laying down an agenda, flagging a path forward. This occasion was evidently different.

‘So where do we go from here, Joe?’

‘We sort it, sir.’

Faraday had just had an update from Jimmy Suttle. Both the Chinese who’d gone to the rescue of their boss had been arrested at the hospital on suspicion of murder. One of them had refused to give a name and it was thought that he was probably an illegal. The other one, a relative of the owner, had been in the country for a number of years. Ample evidence existed in the shape of the CCTV, and in statements taken from the terrified diners who’d witnessed the whole thing. Operation
Adelaide
, as it was now known, would barely make the status of a three-day event. The Chinese would be up before the magistrates on Monday morning. Remanded after that.

‘What about the kids?’

‘We’re charging both of them for blackmail. There’s no soundtrack on the CCTV but the owner’s claiming they demanded a couple of hundred quid and the pictures would tend to support that.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘The woman who was nearest definitely heard Dominey demand money. She’s not prepared to say how much. She says the kid’s voice was muffled.’

‘What about threats to kill?’

‘She heard Milligan say, “I’ll have yer.” That’s as far as she’s prepared to go.’

‘And the owner?’

‘He’s saying they all wanted to kill him.’

‘I’m not surprised. DCI Parsons just showed me the CCTV tape. What have we done, Joe? How did we ever get here?’

The question took Faraday by surprise. At the very least, he’d been expecting a major bollocking for not keeping tabs on Munday’s funeral arrangements. Instead Willard seemed to be voicing a little of Faraday’s own despair.

‘I’ve no idea, sir. And if I had I’m not sure anyone would listen.’

‘I think you’re wrong, Joe. I suspect it’s time we faced up to some home truths. We see more of this stuff than most people because that’s our job. But when it really kicks off, like this evening, we need to be on the front foot when the shit hits the fan. This isn’t just our problem, it’s everyone’s. We have to be forceful. We have to make people acknowledge that we’ve pretty much lost it.’

Faraday nodded. Willard, he knew, was rehearsing his line for all the media interviews to come. He’d done something similar only last year, in the immediate aftermath of a Craneswater party that had got totally out of hand. That occasion had also produced a double murder - two more young lives - and Willard had derived a grim satisfaction from the press and TV coverage that followed. For a couple of days he’d found himself quoted in both the broadsheets and on
Newsnight.
The thin blue line, he’d warned, was no insurance against the simmering violence that threatened to boil over. And here, all too sadly, was the evidence.

Willard hadn’t finished. DCI Parsons had suggested that the on-call D/I should take over Operation
Adelaide
as Deputy Senior Investigating Officer under her own overall leadership. In view of the sheer number of crime scenes, plus the possibility of retribution offences over the coming days, the investigation needed careful supervision, but the persons responsible were either under guard in hospital or already in custody at the Bridewell. And so the immediate challenge lay in strategising a response to the inevitable public reaction.

‘We’re going to get shat on, Joe. I could give you a list of names at headquarters who’ve been praying for an opportunity like this. And that’s just people on our own side. Factor in all those other bastards just itching to shaft us and you can sense what’s coming our way. The loonies and the green ink brigade will be frothing at the mouth. The cleverer ones, the ones who can read, will say we’re too reactive. They may have a point. We weren’t on our toes in Paulsgrove, Joe, and we should have been. We need to be watching the forward radar. What we don’t need are surprises like this.’

Faraday nodded. The word ‘reactive’ had struck a chord with him. ‘Reactive’ meant letting events take control. ‘Reactive’ meant surrendering the initiative.

‘You think we should be in charge?’

‘I know we should be in charge.’

‘Scoping situations out? Anticipating developments? Making our own luck?’

‘Precisely. Intel-led policing. Never fails.’

‘What about
Tumbril
?’

There was a long silence. Willard was staring at him. Faraday knew he’d scored a direct hit.

‘
Tumbril?
’ Willard said at last.

‘Yes.’

‘Why
Tumbril
?’

‘Because the thing was intel-led. And it failed.’

‘But that was different, Joe.
Tumbril
got us screwed, I admit it. But the last thing I anticipated was getting shafted by one of our own.’

Faraday said nothing. The plot to bring down Bazza Mackenzie had crashed and burned because a disaffected officer had blown it. Willard had recovered his poise. He was back in charge. He was looking impatient, wanting to know what relevance any of this had. They were here to discuss a murderous affray in a Paulsgrove Chinky, not a long-term covert operation against the city’s top face.