Beyond Reach (42 page)

On the camcorder’s tiny screen Michaels was talking on a handheld radio. He walked away from the car, his spare hand chopping at the air, his whole body stiff with irritation, and Winter tried to imagine the conversation. He’d be talking, in all probability, with the SIO. It might be Faraday, it might be the woman Parsons. Given the Level Three target - Bazza - it might even be Willard. By now, wherever these clowns were, the penny would have dropped. Bazza had been pulling their pissers again. And the hunt would be on for someone to take the drop. Michaels, as far as Winter could work out, was blameless. Not his fault the intel was shit. Not his fault he’d just wasted the best part of a Thursday evening outside some gutty pub. Not his fault that Winter, the arch-deviant, had ended up scot-free, extending a hand, wishing one and all good evening and good luck.

He watched himself now, reliving the moment he went round every one of them, a pat on the arm, a wink, a cheery goodnight, before he climbed back into the Lexus and purred smoothly away. Bazza, bless him, had recorded it all, every last frame, phoning him within seconds to announce a nearby rendezvous. A hotel called The Sandbanks, mush. Restaurant with a view to die for. Park the motor and bill the rest of the evening to your grateful boss.

Now, watching the waiter pop the top of the first bottle, Winter felt an anticipatory rush of the purest pleasure. Less than an hour ago he’d been eyeballing a return to Pompey in the back of one of the surveillance cars. After that would come the humiliation of the booking-in procedure at the Bridewell, the call to Mackenzie’s brief, the first of two or three interviews, and the indignity of spending the night in a holding cell. Quite how Willard and Co. would frame the charges was frankly guesswork but Winter knew that they’d be burning the midnight oil in a bid to bind him hand and foot. Revenge, to people like Willard, was very definitely a dish served cold.

‘Cheers, mush.’ Bazza had raised his glass.

Winter answered the toast with one of his own.

‘To crime,’ he said. ‘And capitalism.’

He’d already checked with Bazza about Guy. The kid, Baz had assured him, was alive and well. In a couple of hours he’d be back in Craneswater, reunited with Stu and with Ez. Drama over. Problem sorted.

Winter still didn’t get it. The least Bazza owed him was an explanation.

‘Easy, mush. There was something dodgy about the kidnap from the start. Stu spent a fortune on that new security system of his. So how come it never worked?’

The same thought had troubled Winter. He’d put it to Stu.

‘Stu told me it had been on the blink last weekend.’

‘Yeah, he told me that too.’

‘And?’

‘It’s bollocks. I checked with a mate who’s got the same system at his garage. He sells top-of-the-range German motors. He says the system’s good as gold. Never lets you down.’

‘So where does that leave Stu?’

‘Away with the fairies, mush. I don’t blame him. I don’t even hold it against him. If we’re talking blame here, we should be looking at my bloody daughter. She’s a disgrace, that woman, and one day I’m going to tell her so.’

‘Blame him for what, Baz?’

‘For Guy. For everything that’s happened.’

‘
Stu
took him? Lifted his own son?’

‘No, mush. Stu cooked the whole scheme up. Turns out he’s got a mate in London. This guy’s an actor. He’s even been in a couple of Bond movies, at least that’s what Stu says. For quite a lot of money, Stu had a proposition for him. The geezer said yes.’

The way it worked was simple. On the Monday, around eleven o’clock at night, Stu met his friend in London. They drove in convoy down to Alton, then took a route through the country lanes that Stu had already checked for CCTV. Half a mile from the house, late by now, they pulled in. Stu’s mate put on the balaclava and the army top while Stu explained the layout of the house. Guy had a room at the end of the top corridor. You couldn’t miss the Pompey transfer on his door.

‘Had this bloke ever met Guy?’

‘Never. He offered me to give the kid a tour of Shepperton Studios last year but it never worked out. Shame really. Sound stages. Special effects. The lot. Guy would have loved it.’

‘Go on.’

‘Monday night? Easy, mush. Stu gives him the remote, tells him to cut the phone lines, nick the girl’s mobe and get the kid into something warm before sticking a blindfold on him When he gets out of the house all he has to do is follow Stu the way they came, avoiding all the cameras, then fuck off back to London. He’s got a pad near Woking, converted place on top of a kebab bar.’

‘And the remote?’

‘He’s given it back to Stu.’

‘What about Guy?’

‘The kid stays clueless throughout. Stu’s mate keeps him in a locked room, never lets him see his face, never talks. He gets lots to eat though, and Stu’s bought him a brand-new TV set-up to keep the nipper sweet.’

‘And Stu’s in constant touch with this bloke? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yeah. Stu’s got umpteen fucking mobes. A couple of them he declared to the Filth. One of the others he used to talk to this mate of his. Apparently the boy had the time of his life. Wall-to-wall DVDs, video games, the lot. Little fella can’t wait to get kidnapped again.’

Bazza barked with laughter and drained his glass. The bottle was emptying fast. Winter still didn’t get it.

‘But why, Baz? Why go to all that trouble? Why hazard the kid? Why expose yourself like that to the Bill?’

‘Because he’s lost it, mush.’ Mackenzie tapped his head. ‘Because he’s stopped thinking straight. I don’t know what Ez does to her men but it certainly works a treat. Stu would do anything to get her back and he thought a million quid of his own money might just do the trick. That’s how much he thought the relationship was worth. He wanted to prove it, mush. He wanted to show her.’

‘But it wasn’t a million quid. It was whatever he was paying his mate for his trouble.’

‘You’re right. But she wouldn’t know that. Not if he pulled it off properly.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘I sussed him. I sussed what he was up to, not every last detail but enough to put me on track. The rest was a stroll in the park. The guy was a wreck. He couldn’t handle what he’d just done. You pour booze down him, you wait half an hour, you top him up again, then all you need is a locked door and a bit of sympathy. Stu’s a fucking infant. He couldn’t wait to tell me everything.’

Winter nodded. He took a mouthful of Krug. Then another thought occurred to him.

‘So where’s the million quid?’ he said. ‘The money we took out of the bank?’

‘Ah …’ Bazza was laughing again ‘… that’s the best bit.’

 

Faraday checked his watch. Nearly midnight. They were still in Parsons’ office, still poking the ashes of Operation
Causeway
, still trying to figure out just how events could have taken such a catastrophic turn.

Willard, as angry as Faraday had ever seen him, had just finished a longish phone conversation with Dave Michaels. The Surveillance D/S had told him that he’d kept a close eye on Winter from the moment he’d walked out of the pub, and in his opinion there was no way that Winter had known the real contents of the bag. He’d worked with the man on dozens of operations, he knew his MO, he could read his body language, and he’d swear an oath that Winter had been convinced that the game was up.

Willard had dismissed this. As far as he was concerned, Winter was a born actor, as devious and bent as anyone he’d ever met. Between them, he and Mackenzie had baited a trap, laid a trail and waited for
Causeway
to tie itself in knots. The only question worth discussing was why it had been so easy. Did Winter have the ear of someone on the squad? Had some of that money already changed hands?

This, Faraday knew, was lunacy. Willard had been taking Mackenzie personally for far too long. Tonight’s developments had ripped the dressing from the old sore and by scratching at it like this he’d simply deepen the wound. At every turn in every investigation there were decisions to be made. Some worked, some didn’t. Tonight, all too obviously, had been a disaster, but it was their job, round this table, to start afresh.

Willard wasn’t in the mood.

‘Disaster’s a kindness. We’re looking at total humiliation.’

‘Then the man’s won, sir. That’s what he wants. That’s the kind of language he’s after. Why make it easy for him?’

‘Because we have to be realistic, Joe. We have to look the truth in the face and admit it. The man’s taken us for idiots. And we’ve let him do exactly that.’

‘What about Garfield? What about the Met investigation? This thing still has legs, sir. All we have to do is keep up. He’ll make a mistake, I know he will, and then we’ll have him.’

‘You think so?’

For once Willard seemed beaten, a shell of a man. Whatever he did, however hard he tried to understand this latest twist, wherever he sought to lay the blame, the fingers still pointed at him. He’d trusted appearances, he’d made the wrong inference, he’d scampered all the way to Poole like some trusting puppy, and the consequences still didn’t bear contemplation.

He sat back in the chair at the head of the table rubbing his big face. Faraday, he grunted, was right. They’d get a decent night’s sleep, they’d reconvene in the morning, and they’d look for a new path to Mackenzie’s door.

Faraday nodded in agreement, hearing the trill of his mobe. Midnight was late to be making calls.

It was Helen Christian. She sounded excited. She said that something wonderful had happened.

‘Like what?’ Faraday was aware of Willard watching him.

‘Guy,’ she said. ‘The little boy. He’s back.’

 

At the Bargemaster’s House, Faraday finally settled at his PC. He fired up Outlook Express and clicked on Gabrielle’s last message. Normally he’d reply in French but he was dog-tired,
tout à fait crevé,
totally knackered, and trusted himself only in English. Gabrielle, a couple of days back, had assured him that she’d been completely sober when she’d written of her yearning to come back to him. Now he half-closed his eyes, wondering how best to give her the answer she deserved.

He toyed with several ideas, all of them too complex or too cheesy. Then, knowing that the simplest things normally worked best, he bent to the keyboard.
Remember the guillemot chicks?
he wrote.
You won’t believe this but one just flew back. Still room in the nest. A bientôt. J.

FRIDAY, 30 MAY 2008. 09.46

Winter was back in Portsmouth next morning. His first call from the apartment in Gunwharf found Marie doing Guy’s laundry.

‘So what actually happened?’ Winter was still foggy about the details.

‘There was a ring at the front door bell last night. According to Stu, it was late, gone eleven. The next thing he knew Guy was standing there on the doorstep. Stu said it was weird because it seemed so normal. It was like he’d never gone. Stu couldn’t believe it. He ended up in tears.’

‘What did Guy say?’

‘He just said this woman had driven him down from London and dropped him off.’

‘Did he know her?’

‘Not at all. He said she was really nice. Talked to him about crocodiles most of the time.’

‘
Crocodiles?
’

‘Yeah. She’d spent some time in Australia, up in Queensland, some farm in the outback.’

‘And he’s OK? Guy?’

‘He’s fine, just fine. His sisters can’t get over it. They can’t work out where he’s been. Neither can Guy for that matter.’

Winter nodded but said nothing. Last night he’d had his doubts about Bazza’s breezy version of events. Now he sensed it was probably true. The kidnap had been a fiction, a heavy broadside in Stu’s war for his wife’s heart. The last person he’d put at risk was his own son.

Marie was asking about Bazza. Where was he?

‘He’s gone to London,’ Winter told her. ‘He’s given me a whack of money and told me to take you lot to Thorpe Park.’

‘
All
of us?’

‘All of you.’

‘But the police want to talk to Guy. Before he forgets it all.’

‘I bet they do. That’s exactly what Baz said. Eleven o’clock, my love. Baz is going to meet us up there. Burger King. Late lunch.’

 

The news got to DCI Parsons an hour or so later. She looked up from a budget report to find Helen Christian at her office door. The FLO had tried unsuccessfully to arrange a time to interview Guy Norcliffe.

‘They’re all off out, boss. I gather it’s a bit of a bonding session.’

‘Tell them it’s important. Tell them I have to insist.’

‘I can’t. They’ve gone.’

‘They have mobiles?’

‘They’re on divert.’

Parsons stared at her. When she slept badly she had trouble controlling her temper.

‘Do you mind trying again? Or is that too much to ask?’

Christian nodded, said nothing, closed the door. Minutes later, Parsons’ phone rang. It was Christian again.

‘Still on divert, boss. I’m afraid we’ve lost them for today.’

 

Thorpe Park was the adrenalin junkie’s dream day out, dozens of gut-twisting rides on a huge site off the M25. At Winter’s suggestion, they took two cars. Marie drove Esme and the two girls whilst Stu and Guy got into Winter’s Lexus. By now, Winter had taken Stu aside. He knew what had happened to Guy because Bazza had told him. What mattered now was to find out how Guy might handle the police interview, which would, in the end, happen.

Guy was delighted to be offered the front passenger seat. Never before in his young life had his dad been relegated to the back. Winter eased through the light mid-morning traffic, then hit the motorway north.

‘How’s it been then?’ He glanced down at his young companion, wondering quite what he must have made of the last few days.