Beyond Reach (40 page)

‘We ask ourselves whether there isn’t more to this kidnap than meets the eye. Quite what, I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.’

‘You think we might be chasing our tails?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘You think Mackenzie might be taking the piss again?’

‘Yes.’

There was a general exchange of looks around the table. Faraday thought for a moment that Willard was going to ask for a show of hands but then the door opened and the Surveillance D/S stepped back into the room. He was still holding his mobile. He paused beside Willard and muttered something Faraday couldn’t catch. Willard stiffened, then checked his watch.

‘Shit,’ he said softly.

 

Minutes beforehand, Winter had set off for Poole. Now, he eased the big Lexus onto the spur motorway that fed traffic north beside the harbour to the mainland. The Nike bag lay in the footwell on the passenger side of the car. To Winter’s amusement, Mackenzie had made a show of padlocking it.

‘I sent the guy a key yesterday. If it hasn’t arrived he’ll have to use a fucking knife.’

Winter settled down for the drive west. At this time of night the traffic was heavy and the streams of homebound cars had been thickened by a line of trucks pouring off a recently arrived ferry. Winter tucked himself behind a French artic and found some decent music on the radio. For the time being, he’d decided, the only sane option was to ride along with Bazza and hope to Christ he’d got it right. It wasn’t the fact that he’d been relegated to bagman that rankled. It was the dawning knowledge that this whole kidnap had developed a dimension that Mackenzie simply refused to share.

Something had happened, Winter knew it had. Esme, as self-obsessed as ever, was probably unaware. Marie, who read the tea leaves as astutely as Winter, was looking a wreck. While Stu, after a couple of days on the edge of his own nervous breakdown, seemed to have clammed up completely.

Winter asked himself why. A couple of years back, in the Job, he’d have actioned this. A couple of hours in an interview room, properly handled, could unlock all kinds of secrets, but in this new life of his Winter was left with nothing but his own native guile. Twice over the last couple of days he’d tried to get alongside Stu, tried to build the kind of matey rapport that might lower his guard, but on both occasions sympathy just hadn’t been enough. Whatever Stu was hiding from the rest of the world had turned him into a mute.

Did this explain Bazza’s abrupt return to form? Had Stu’s father-in-law somehow conjured a result from the days and nights of family angst? Winter rather suspected that this had to be true but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out how. Neither, for that matter, did he understand the new role that Mo Sturrock seemed to have acquired. It was undeniable that Tide Turn’s new executive director had lit a sizeable fire in Marie, and for that blessing Winter was truly grateful, but why had Bazza summoned him back from the hovercraft? And what on earth was he still doing in Craneswater?

 

The
Causeway
meeting had dispersed. Only Parsons, Willard and Faraday remained in the DCI’s office. The Surveillance D/S had received word from the team following Winter that he’d left Mackenzie’s Craneswater house. His Lexus had been parked in the road outside and he’d appeared at 18.23, carrying what looked like a black sports bag. His route out of the city had taken him north to the M27, and then west towards Southampton. The assumption had to be that swap arrangements for the release of Guy Norcliffe were under way.

Given the speed with which events were now moving, Willard had abandoned any attempt at a risk assessment. The priority now was to keep tabs on Winter and take out some kind of tactical insurance in case things turned awkward with the boy. The latter, entirely Willard’s decision, had involved a call to the TFU. The Tactical Firearms Unit were on standby 24/7. Thankfully, they were based at Netley, five minutes from the M27. With a following wind, they could be hauled in by the surveillance boys and slotted in behind the ever-lengthening queue of unmarked cars accompanying Winter westwards.

‘So where do you think he’s going, Joe?’

‘No idea, sir. If it was Southampton, he’d have peeled off by now.’

‘The New Forest? Some link to Madison?’

‘It’s possible but I doubt it.’

Willard nodded. Both Parsons and Faraday knew that he’d put his head on the block. Deploying the TFU required authorisation from an Assistant Chief Constable. They’d heard Willard, just minutes earlier, assuring the ACC that this plan of his offered the best possible chance of killing three birds with one stone. Within an hour or so they might have recovered the child, the ransom, and gathered enough evidence to start restraint proceedings against Pompey’s top face. No wonder the ACC had said yes.

 

Winter had no difficulty finding the Dog Star. The miracle of sat-nav took him into the depths of Poole, a westward extension of Bournemouth that sprawled around a huge natural harbour. The continental ferry port was tucked into the northern end of the harbour within walking distance of the pub. Beyond a small marina, through a thicket of yacht masts, Winter could see the white bulk of the cross-Channel ferry. How hard might it be to pop a million quid into the boot of your car, buy a single for Cherbourg and just sail away?

He stored the thought in the back of his mind and retrieved the sports bag from the Lexus. According to a chalked blackboard propped against the Dog Star’s front door Thursday was the midweek pub quiz. Half-price drinks until eight and a two-for-one offer if you fancied fish and chips. Winter pushed in through the front door, glad he’d turned down Marie’s salad. Once all this nonsense was over, fish and chips would be perfect.

The pub was busier than he’d expected. The quiz was due to start at eight and regular teams had already commandeered most of the tables. He found a spot towards the back with a good view of the door, folded his coat over the seat, and took the bag to the bar. For once in his life, conscious of the importance of what might happen next, he limited himself to a half of Stella. Back in his seat, with the bag tucked between his feet, he settled down to wait.

 

At Willard’s request, the tech adviser from the Comms Intelligence Unit had stayed on at Major Crimes. He’d sorted out a couple of Airwave handsets from his van and tuned them both to the frequency being used by the surveillance team tracking Winter west. The set-up permitted two-way communication, giving Willard overall command of the operation. Parsons had organised a tray of coffees and Faraday had fetched a packet of ginger biscuits he dimly remembered storing in his bottom drawer.

The atmosphere around the conference table was strained. This opportunity had blown in from nowhere, like a sudden summer storm, and Faraday knew how much Willard hated surprises. In a perfect world you’d plan for something like this, carefully deploying your assets, briefing your teams, preparing contingency arrangements, trying to cover every square on the board. That way, as all the training manuals agreed, you’d reduce your exposure to the unexpected and stand a decent chance of emerging with a result. Tonight, though, was very different, and the knowledge that Mackenzie had somehow forced
Causeway
into a corner had darkened Willard’s mood.

He was bent to one of the handsets, talking to the D/S in charge of the surveillance team. The D/S, in turn, had been in touch with his oppo on the Tactical Firearms Unit. The TFU were parked up round the corner from the pub.

Willard wanted to know what was happening inside.

‘The target’s at the back. The place is heaving. Pub quiz night.’ Faraday smiled. ‘The target’ was Winter. Willard must have been dreaming of this moment for the last couple of years.

‘You have line of sight?’

‘Affirmative. Two of our guys are in there, no problem.’

‘TFU?’

‘Ready to move. There’s a rear exit and a car park at the back. I’ve got that covered too.’

‘Keep me briefed.’

‘Affirmative, sir.’

Willard leant back and reached for his coffee. No matter how imperfect his preparations for whatever might happen next, Faraday could sense his excitement at the chance of finally nailing not just Mackenzie but Winter as well. Both men, in their separate ways, had been thorns in Willard’s flesh: Mackenzie because of his profile, and his wealth, and his flagrant contempt for law and order, and Winter because he’d crossed to the Dark Side and joined him. In Willard’s book there was no sin so grave as betrayal.

Looking up, he caught Faraday’s eye. If the wheels came off this one the consequences were unthinkable.

‘Are you a betting man, Joe?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Just as well.’ The smile was grim. ‘Fingers crossed, eh?’

 

Winter happily parted with a quid for the quiz entry fee. The girl with the jam jar had a nice smile and Winter liked being told he looked intelligent. Tonight’s star prize was a side of lamb, pre-butchered for the deep freeze.

‘You want someone to join you? Make a team?’

‘No thanks, love.’

‘Are you sure? Only I know most people here.’

‘Yeah?’ He beckoned her closer, lowered his voice. ‘How about that guy over there?’

Winter had noticed him a couple of minutes earlier. He had a tiny table by the door. He was young, crop-haired, casually dressed, and had the kind of watchfulness that Winter could recognise at a thousand miles. The face wasn’t familiar but after a couple of years out of the Job that meant nothing.

The girl with the jar sneaked a look. Then turned back.

‘By the door?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Never seen him in my life.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. You want me to ask him over?’

Winter looked up at her a moment. Then he nodded.

‘Brilliant idea,’ he said.

She took the jar over. It was getting noisier now and she had to bend to make herself heard. Winter caught the shake of the head and the quick precautionary glance in his direction. He grinned back, raised his glass, gestured at the empty chair beside him before the face disappeared behind a swirl of incoming drinkers. When the lounge cleared again Winter realised that the guy had bought a ticket for the quiz. He got to his feet, walked across. Leaving the bag for a minute or two was a risk but he couldn’t resist a closer look.

‘You’re sure, mate?’

‘Positive. Thanks for the offer, though. And good luck, eh?’

Winter returned to his seat, trying to convince himself he’d been wrong. Surveillance guys used tiny mikes taped to the inside of their shirts or their wrists. If you knew what you were looking for they weren’t hard to spot. This guy appeared to have neither. And what kind of copper ever wished you luck?

 

‘I think he’s clocked us, sir, or one of us anyway.’

‘Who?’

‘The target.’

‘You’re kidding.’

Willard took the news badly. He should have anticipated this.

 

Winter had decades of experience. He’d been in similar situations a million times before. He knew exactly what to look for, what to expect. With all the sneaky-beaky in the world you couldn’t fool the guy who knew exactly how to put the clues together.

‘What do you want us to do, sir?’

‘Hang in there. See what develops.’

 

The first round of questions was on the history of
Coronation Street
. Winter settled down, eyeing the sheet in front of him, knowing he was on home territory. His wife, Joannie, had been mad about
Coronation Street.
Winter hadn’t shared too many of her evenings in front of the TV but she’d always bring him up to date next morning over breakfast. What Mike Baldwin ought to do with his love-rat pisshead son
.
Whether Deirdre Rachid would really end up inside after getting it on with her con-man boyfriend. Decades later, those conversations were still fresh in his memory. He could chart the highs and lows of his marriage by what was happening on
Corrie
.

Winter reached for the biro the girl had left behind, waiting for the first question. If, by any chance, he won this thing he’d definitely be dedicating the evening to Joannie. She’d always loved roast lamb.

The quizmaster called for order.

‘Question one …’ he announced. ‘Who electrocuted herself with a hairdryer in 1971?’

With a little jolt of pleasure Winter realised he knew the answer. Teams at various tables were conferring. Someone said Bet Lynch. Someone else, shaking their head, insisted it was Rita Littlewood. Winter, knowing that only poor Valerie Barlow would have done something like that, glanced across at the lone drinker by the door. The guy was far too young to even have heard of Val Barlow. No wonder he was looking so clueless.

Winter grinned to himself, still watching as the guy turned his body away, shielding it from Winter’s sight. Then his head went down and there was a ripple across the denim jacket as his right arm came up. It was the kind of motion you’d make if you were stifling a cough or a sneeze and Winter knew with an alarming certainty that he’d been right first time. The guy had a mike up his sleeve. They’d been following him, doubtless mob-handed. There’d be a couple more in the pub, someone round the back, a car or a scooter outside in case he made a hasty exit. They’d got him plotted up. They’d got him kippered. And the million quid at his feet told him he was in deep shit.

 

‘He’s definitely onto us, sir. I think he may be leaving any minute.’

‘Options?’

‘We can take him now. Favourite would be outside.’

Willard nodded. More control. Fewer punters. Less drama. But what about the handover?

‘No sign of anyone else?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Give it another minute or two.’

‘And if he leaves?’

‘Nick him.’