Beyond Reach (33 page)

‘Say a million.’

‘You’ve got that kind of money?’

‘I can find it.’

‘Quickly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fingers crossed then. Eh?’

There was a ring at the front door. Marie was still busy at the stove so Winter, who was nearest, stepped out into the hall. A tall figure was visible through the pebbled-glass panels at the end of the hall. Winter opened the door. It was Mo Sturrock.

‘I’m just passing,’ he said at once. ‘There was just a couple of things I wanted to check out with Mrs Mackenzie. Is now a bad time?’

‘Not at all.’ It was Marie. She was drying her hands on a cloth. She invited Sturrock in.

Winter lingered a moment, watching the pair of them disappearing into the lounge at the front of the house. Now was very definitely a bad time but he sensed a neediness in Marie that Sturrock, with his easy smile, might be able to address. The guy had built an entire career out of coping with impossible situations. Welcome to Craneswater.

Back in the kitchen, Mackenzie wanted to know who’d been at the door. Winter told him.

‘The Tide Trust bloke?’

‘Yeah.’

‘This time of night?’

‘Yeah. He needs a couple of things off Marie.’ Winter looked Mackenzie in the eye. ‘You think we ought to have a little chat as well?’

Mackenzie gazed up at him and for the first time Winter realised he was drunk.

‘No, mush.’ His eyes strayed to the cupboard where Marie kept an emergency bottle of malt. ‘I’m nicely settled in.’

 

Willard drove down from Winchester for the council of war in the Major Crime suite of offices. Faraday couldn’t remember when he’d last seen him this lively. There was a lightness in his step, and as he strode down the central corridor past Faraday’s open door he was even humming. There was a tune in there somewhere but Faraday was struggling to name it. Maybe Tchaikovsky, he thought. Maybe the climax of the 1812
Overture
. Napoleon about to be sent packing. Very apt.

The call to Parsons’ office came minutes later. Operation
Causeway
was up to speed now and there was a scatter of detectives in the Major Incident Room at the end of the corridor, trying to tease some kind of lead from the latest development. Faraday had listened to the kidnapper’s opening salvo in the war for Mackenzie’s grandson and recognised the start of what might prove to be a lengthy negotiation. The voice - flat, Home Counties - gave little away. A bloke in a call box in Woking. Big deal.

To Faraday’s surprise, Jimmy Suttle was already at the conference table in Parsons’ office. The last time Faraday had seen him was a couple of hours ago. Then he’d been on the point of calling it a day. She must have kept him on specially, Faraday thought.

Willard took the chair at the head of the table and kicked off. Expecting a review of Operation
Causeway
, Faraday found himself listening to Willard’s take on something very different.

‘This is about Mackenzie,’ he said at once. ‘We need to be sure about exactly where we are. D/S Suttle?’

Suttle had obviously been charged with pulling together the day’s intelligence. He bent to his notepad, flipped through a couple of pages, then looked up.

‘This is what we know for sure,’ he began. ‘Mackenzie’s daughter flew to Vigo on Saturday. I’ve got the flight details. I’ve also been working through Interplod and they put a local cop into the airport this afternoon and talked to the rental companies. Interplod are saying that Mackenzie’s daughter hired a car at the airport and mentioned she was going to a place called Baiona. Their bloke did a quick check on the big hotels there and struck lucky. She was staying at -’ he looked down at his pad to check the name ‘- the Fonda Perla de Cuba. That same Saturday night a Nikki Garfield also checked in. That has to be Garfield’s wife. She and Mackenzie’s daughter had dinner together and Esme put the bill on her tab. Garfield checked out on Sunday afternoon, Esme flew back today.’

‘And who else was there?’ Willard was enjoying this.

‘Winter, sir. He booked in on Sunday. Booked out yesterday. One of the waiters saw Winter and Esme on the terrace with a couple of other guys on Sunday. These guys were Spanish. That’s all we know.’

‘But there was something else, wasn’t there?’ Willard was looking at Parsons. Parsons told him to be patient. The best was evidently yet to come.

‘Jimmy?’ she said.

‘The Interplod guy picked up something else at the airport. He hasn’t had a chance to check the CCTV yet but he thinks something might have kicked off in one of the car parks. Apparently the girl on the rental desk told him that when Nikki Garfield returned the car she had blood on her dress. There was a guy with her too. And he was in a right mess.’

‘So what does this tell us?’ Willard again.

‘I can’t be sure, sir. The waiter at the Baiona hotel is pissed off with the management because everybody knows the place is up for sale and he thinks the owner’s going to screw him out of redundancy money. According to him, Garfield and Mackenzie’s daughter are buying it between them. We can’t prove that, not yet, but the daughter’s been there before, at least a couple of times according to the waiter, so that would make sense.’

Willard nodded.

‘We’ve got contact details for the waiter and the rental girl?’

‘Yeah. Interplod have been brilliant. Textbook stuff.’

‘How about airport security?’

‘They’re onto that. My man says he’ll bell me first thing tomorrow.’

‘Excellent. What about Garfield?’ Willard was looking at Parsons now.

‘I talked to the Met again this evening. To be frank they’re not that helpful but they confirmed again that Garfield’s the subject of a major investigation. They pulled him in at the end of last week and managed one extension but got knocked back on the other.’

Willard nodded. A uniformed Superintendent could extend twenty-four-hour custody by a further twelve hours. After that it was in the hands of the magistrates.

‘What happened?’

‘He’s got a shit-hot lawyer and he managed to keep them at arm’s length but reading between the lines they’re obviously light on evidence. I ended up talking to the Detective Superintendent in charge. They’ve bailed Garfield until the end of June. As far as he’s concerned it’s just a matter of time.’

‘So the investigation’s definitely under way?’

‘Big time. They’ve thrown lots of resource at it, surveillance teams in Spain, lots of covert, lots of sneaky-beaky. Garfield’s high priority, no question.’

Mention of covert had sharpened Willard’s interest still further. ‘Has Mackenzie’s name come up?’

‘They’re aware of our interest. When I put it to them straight, tabled Mackenzie’s name, they refused to comment, but the answer’s yes, I’d put my life on it. He’s in there with Garfield on the hotel deal, and probably all kinds of other stuff as well.’

‘Knowing Garfield’s bent?’ It was Faraday this time, the first tiny hint of dissent. ‘Why on earth would he take the risk?’

‘Because he’s reckless, Joe. And because we might have overestimated him. He’s a Copnor boy, through and through. Once a scrote …’ Willard shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Parsons wanted to know where Willard wanted to take this inquiry next. For the sake of keeping everything neat and tidy it was important to maintain a clear focus. Operation
Causeway
had been mounted to resolve the kidnapping of Mackenzie’s grandchild. This latest flurry of enquiries, whilst an offshoot of
Causeway
, would presumably lead somewhere else.

‘Of course.’

‘Where, exactly?’

‘To Mackenzie’s arrest. And his daughter. And Winter, for that matter. This is prima facie, Gail. We have evidence, or near-evidence, that Mackenzie has gone into some kind of partnership with Garfield. Garfield is already under active investigation. That means grounds exist for believing that he leads a criminal lifestyle. Anyone who does business with him is tainted by that lifestyle. Mackenzie, for whatever reason, has done exactly that. Game, set and fucking match.’ He beamed at Faraday, a fellow survivor from
Tumbril.
‘Right, Joe?’

‘Right, sir. So what do we do?’

‘We pull him in tomorrow. Early doors. In fact we pull the lot of them in. All three. That launches the investigation. And by doing that we can trigger the restraint order and freeze his assets.’

‘He’s just had his grandson kidnapped.’ It was Suttle. ‘Aren’t we being a bit hasty, sir?’

Willard waved the consideration away. ‘This is about crime, son. Not hearts and minds. Mackenzie’s been taking the piss for far too long. Winter as well. There’s no way we’re going to nail them in interview, not first time round, but we have to get the ball rolling. Joe? You agree?’

Faraday was gazing at Parsons. Early doors meant dawn arrests.

‘So who’s going to organise this?’

‘You are, Joe.’ She smiled. ‘You’re happy with that?’

 

Winter, despairing, took himself off for a walk. The danger, he knew, was acute. Ever since he’d started to work for Bazza Mackenzie he’d recognised the sheer scale of the challenge that lay ahead. The very things that so often made the man a joy to be with - his instinct for the killer move, his delight in running rings round the competition, his contempt for the boring and the ordinary - were equally a handicap when it came to taking advice. He never listened. He always assumed -
knew -
that he was in the right. Winter, with a lifetime of manipulation behind him, had quickly sussed how to channel Bazza’s wild energy, how to torpedo some of his crazier schemes, but he’d always been aware that something enormous might suddenly turn up and swamp them both. That something had arrived and yet Bazza still couldn’t see it.

At the kitchen table Winter had done his best. They were up against classy opposition. Faraday and Suttle knew what they were about. The Met were definitely crawling all over Garfield. He and Bazza, and Esme too, had precious little time to block the holes in their little stockade and keep the Apaches at bay. Bazza didn’t begin to see this, partly because it wasn’t in his nature to do the Filth any kind of favour, but mostly because he couldn’t stop thinking about his grandson. He’d always been especially proud of Guy. The boy was gutsy, a bit of a scrapper. He was bright too, and funny. If it was true that the better genes jumped a whole generation then there was no one prouder than Bazza Mackenzie.

Winter looked back at the house before he stepped out onto the pavement. Marie, he knew, had introduced Mo Sturrock to the kids, and as far as he was aware Mo was still up with them. Half nine was late for five-year-olds but just now time seemed to have lost any meaning. He thought of Stu in the kitchen, nursing yet another can of Stella, of Esme still sulking in the spare room upstairs, of Bazza drinking himself insensible in his den, and wondered whether every family enterprise was doomed to end this way, in a car wreck of blame and recrimination, any hope of rescue slipping remorselessly away.

He wandered down the road and headed for the seafront. The last embers of a decent sunset were dying in the west and a thin grey mist hung over the Solent. There were strings of coloured lights on the promenade and the warmth of the evening had drawn couples out for an evening stroll. Winter paused for a moment at the seawall, smelling the heat still rising from the pebbles, knowing how much this city meant to him. He’d spent most of his working life policing the battlefield. Lately, he’d had a lot of fun on the other side of no-man’s-land. He understood the place. He spoke its many languages. He was totally fluent in Pompey. And, perhaps for that reason, he had absolutely no illusions about what lay ahead. Unless someone took the initiative, he was fucked.

 

Faraday was on the point of retiring early when the doorbell went. Between them, he and Jimmy Suttle had put together a couple of D/Cs and a WPC for tomorrow’s expedition to Craneswater. They were to meet at Kingston Crescent at half past three in the morning to be at Mackenzie’s place by four. Now, barefoot, he opened the front door. It was Winter.

Faraday stared at him. In six hours he’d have this man under arrest.

‘Inviting me in, boss? Or shall we do it here?’

‘Do what?’

Winter didn’t answer. After a moment’s hesitation Faraday stepped aside and let him in. Winter walked through to the lounge and made himself comfortable on the sofa.

‘You’ll need a pad and paper, boss,’ he said. ‘I want to keep this thing official.’

Faraday didn’t quite believe it. ‘What thing?’

‘I want to make a disclosure under the provisions of the Proceeds of Crime Act, 2002. That OK with you, boss?’

‘You’re talking like a lawyer.’

‘Funny that. You remember Nelly Tien?’

‘I do.’

‘I’ve asked her to drive down.’

‘Now? At this time of night?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter checked his watch. ‘She’s just moved to a big place in Petersfield. She should have been here by now.’

Nelly Tien was Mackenzie’s lawyer, a ferocious Hong Kong Chinese who defended his interests with considerable guile. She arrived minutes later, a busy swirl of expensive Italian leather behind a bow wave of Coco Chanel. She extracted an audio recorder from her briefcase and stationed it carefully on the low table in front of the sofa. Faraday gazed at her in wonderment.

‘This is totally inappropriate,’ he said. ‘I could do you both for invasion of privacy.’

‘You invited me in, boss,’ Winter pointed out. ‘You should have told me to fuck off.’

‘Good idea. So why don’t you?’

‘Because we have a pressing need to make an authorised disclosure, Mr Faraday.’ It was Tien. She’d pressed the Record button. ‘My clients are under extreme pressure, as you know. Naturally you want to limit knowledge of the kidnapping. Making this disclosure in the normal way is therefore not an option. We could go to the Bridewell and make a statement but that might jeopardise your handling of the kidnap.’