No Lovelier Death (43 page)

‘You think he’s bluffing?’

‘No, boss, I don’t think he is.’

‘So you think he can deliver?’

‘Yeah.’ He wiped the rain from his face. ‘I imagine he can. Even Winter understands bullshit has its limits.’

‘But how? How has he got there?’

‘When we haven’t? Fuck knows. Maybe he’s just better than us.’

‘Inconceivable, Jimmy. Out of the question.’

It took a moment for Suttle to realise that Faraday was joking. Last night had clearly had an impact on him as well.

Suttle nodded at the phone on the desk. ‘Have you heard from Parsons at all?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Mr Willard?’

‘Zilch.’

‘So how do we progress this, boss? As a matter of interest?’

‘We don’t, Jimmy. You leave it to me.’

He told Suttle to start working the phones. They needed confirmation that West had cabbed it to Gatwick. Calls to the airlines should produce a flight number and a destination. By that time DCI Parsons might be in a position to talk to Interplod and raise an international warrant.

‘And Mackenzie? Winter?’

‘I just told you, Jimmy. You leave that to me.’

He glanced up and nodded at the door. Suttle, taking the hint, left the office. Faraday lifted the phone and hit the redial button. This time Gabrielle’s phone was on divert.

 

Bazza Mackenzie was having breakfast by the time Winter got to Sandown Road. Marie cleared an extra space at the kitchen table and broke a couple of extra eggs into the frying pan. The smell of the bacon made Winter realise how hungry he was.

He shook the rain off his coat and closed the kitchen door. Bazza was buried in the sports pages of the
Daily Mirror.

‘Haven’t been arrested then, mush?’

‘Not yet, Baz. Early days.’

‘You think they’ll get it sorted?

‘I think they’ll try.’

‘Fuck all we can do then, really. Just wait.’ At last his head came up. ‘Or do we have a cunning plan?’

‘No plan, Baz. Except the motor.’

‘The Alfa? What about it?’

‘My guess is they’ll start sieving through the intel on the 6.57. Old names, old faces, anyone they can link to you. Your mate Barry’s one of them.’

‘Barry’s sound, mush. Trust him with my life.’

‘But that’s the whole point, Baz. That’s what you’ve just done and that’s exactly what they’ll expect. Which is why they’ll be knocking on his door too.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Absolutely. It’s called intelligence, Baz. They’ve got loads, and times like now, believe me, it comes in fucking handy. So maybe we have a think about the Alfa. Before they get round to paying a visit.’

Mackenzie nodded, then stifled a yawn.

‘The Alfa went off first thing this morning,’ he said. ‘A mate of mine runs a scrapyard up in Swindon. He’s got a crusher. Turns any motor into a bunch of teaspoons. Can’t do better than that, can we?’

‘Went off, Baz? You mean someone’s
driving
it up there?’

‘Sort of, yeah.’

He shot Winter a wolfish grin. Brian Tallow was another stalwart from the 6.57 days. He ran a removals business specialising in shipping stuff abroad. He had three second-hand furniture lorries, the sides emblazoned with the Union Jack. Winter had used him on a couple of Mackenzie Poolside jobs.

‘Brian’s running it up there?’

‘Yeah. We loaded the Alfa first thing. Cushty, mush. Got anything on today? Only me and a few mates are off on a little outing. Southampton Airport. Half twelve.’ Another grin. ‘My shout.’

 

Parsons found it hard to believe. She’d perched herself on the edge of Faraday’s desk. Faraday had just told her about Winter.

‘He’s taking the piss, Joe. He has to be. When someone goes to those lengths it means he’s desperate.’

‘What if he’s not?’

‘Desperate?’

‘Taking the piss. What if he’s been rooting around, asking questions, putting two and two together, maybe talking to some of the kids? What if they tell him stuff they won’t tell us? Stuff that’s led him to a name or two? He works for Mackenzie, remember. And that gives him access to the kind of pressure we can’t possibly apply.’

‘I’m not with you, Joe.’

‘Have you taken a look at Brett West’s souvenir book yet?’

‘No.’

‘You should. That’s pressure, believe me.’

Faraday had donned a pair of gloves and leafed through the album only this morning. Slashed faces. Drilled kneecaps. Wounds no plastic surgeon could ever properly repair. Willard, in a way, had been right. This wasn’t simply the work of a psychopath. Mackenzie, in the end, had made it happen.

‘And you’re telling me any of that assists the course of justice?’

‘I’m telling you nothing, boss. Except that it’s completely conceivable that Winter has beaten us to it.’

‘Then surely it’s just a question of time before we catch up.’

‘Not necessarily. What if he’s laid hands on a key piece of evidence? Something we’d need to make the case? What then?’

‘We nick him.’

‘But say he’s gone to some lengths to hide this thing - whatever it is - away?’

She studied him for a long moment then frowned. ‘You’re suggesting we do some kind of trade?’

‘I’m suggesting we explore the situation. We’re in new territory, boss. Winter’s sharp. He knows we’re up against it. He knows we’ve got all kinds of people, powerful people, pushing us for a result. Media-wise, the force is still in the frame. We’ve spent a fortune already and there are lots of bills to come. We’re nearly a week on and what have we got to show for it all? Sod all.’

‘We’ve got Mackenzie. And Winter too.’

‘That’s a supposition.’

‘You don’t think we can make it stick?’

‘Not as far as Rachel and the lad Hughes are concerned, no way.

Maybe we can get some kind of result on Danny Cooper. But even then we’ve got to link Brett West to Mackenzie. You know they’ve been close. Half the bloody city knows West does jobs for Bazza but that proves nothing, not in a court of law. People won’t be in a hurry to testify against Mackenzie. And if you want to know why, you should take a look at that album.’

Parsons shifted her weight on the desk. She hated admitting the force of anyone else’s arguments. Finally, with some regret, she nodded at the phone.

‘Do you make the call, or do I?’

‘What call?’

‘To Mr Willard. This is way above my pay grade, Joe. And frankly it’s probably above his too.’

 

Misty Gallagher was ten minutes early for the meet at Gunwharf. She rang Winter from the entrance to the undercroft parking area. She needed the code to raise the barrier. Minutes later she was emerging from the lift and blowing him a kiss the length of the third-floor landing.

‘Do I smell coffee?’

‘Another day, Mist. I’m late as it is.’

She followed Winter into the flat. A holdall lay on the sofa, half-packed. Winter disappeared onto the landing with a screwdriver.

‘DIY time, Paulie?’ she called.

‘Don’t ask.’

A couple of minutes later, Winter was back with something small, wrapped in a Waitrose shopping bag.

‘Guard it with your life, Mist. Like I said, no one needs to know.’

‘Baz?’

‘No one. And keep it somewhere fucking safe. Just in case.’

‘Just in case what?’

‘Just in case the Bill come looking. We can’t rely on them being stupid all the time, can we?’ He looked her in the eye. ‘You with me, Mist?’

‘Of course I am.’ She was weighing the little parcel in her hand.

‘Best not leave it in the house then, eh?’

‘Best where no one’s going to find it. It’s your call, Mist, but speaking personally I’d dig a hole in that garden of yours and bury it. And I’d do it after dark, yeah?’

‘You want it back?’

‘Of course I want it back. But not just yet, love.’

He sat beside the holdall and began to pack a modest pile of clothes. Misty watched him, intrigued.

‘Going somewhere nice?’

‘No idea, Mist, absolutely none. But this is Bazza, isn’t it? He’s staring a conspiracy charge in the face and we’re all off on fucking holiday. Anyone else, I’d say they’d lost it.’

‘Conspiracy to what?’

‘Murder.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Too fucking right.’ Winter checked his watch then nodded at the package. ‘You happy about that? No second thoughts?’

Misty was still digesting the news about Bazza. It turned out he’d appeared first thing this morning, letting himself into the house and banging around downstairs without even bothering to say hello.

‘You saw him?’

‘I yelled down in the end. He said he was just off out again.’

‘What did he want?’

‘No idea. It happens sometimes.’

She shrugged and slipped the package in her bag. Then she bent low, kissing Winter on the lips.

‘You owe me, you know that?’

‘Great.’ He managed a smile. ‘But some other time, eh?’

SATURDAY, 18 AUGUST 2007.
11.43

Gabrielle and J-J took the bus up to Drayton. Connor, as promised, was waiting inside the fish and chip shop across the pavement from the bus stop. The minute he saw J-J, he stepped out into the rain and began to walk away.

Gabrielle caught him further down the parade of shops. Since she’d last seen him, he seemed to have acquired a gold chain. It was looped around his scrawny neck, the bottom disappearing beneath a fold of shirt.

‘You never told me about no other geezer.’

‘He’s OK. A friend, that’s all.’

‘Why bring him?’

‘Because I had to.’

‘Who says?’

‘My other friend.’

‘The bloke I met? He
was
a cop, wasn’t he? See … I was right. And he’s your friend too? Fuck that.’

He made to turn on his heel but she pulled him back. Her strength surprised him.

‘No bird does that to me.’ He brushed his sleeve. ‘That’s out of order.’

‘I’m sorry. I apologise.’

‘Yeah?’ He was uncertain now, the rain streaming down his face.

‘Here.’ She nodded at a nearby convenience store. The pavement was dry beneath the plastic awning. Connor was taking a harder look at J-J, who’d sought shelter in the doorway of a nearby estate agency. Something clearly puzzled him.

‘What’s he like then, this bloke?’

‘He’s deaf.’

‘
Deaf?
You’re joking. How does he hear then?’

‘He doesn’t. That’s why he’s deaf. Deaf and dumb.’

‘Can’t talk neither?’

‘No.’

‘And you think I believe that? You think I’m some kind of cunt? Really stupid, like?’

Gabrielle beckoned J-J over. In a burst of sign she explained that Connor was worried about the fact that she had company.

J-J nodded. Then turned to Connor. He put his head on one side, raised his hands in a despairing gesture then rolled his eyes. Even Connor laughed.

‘He’s fucking simple, your mate. That’s well cool. Do it again.’

‘
Quoi?
’

‘The hands bit. Like you did just now.’

Gabrielle obliged. This time she signed that Connor needed to get out more. J-J signalled his agreement by winking at Connor and sticking up both thumbs.

‘What’s that about then?’

‘I told him you were going to help us. With the address.’

‘Yeah … ?’ He frowned. Then his bitten fingers strayed to the tiny gold cross on the chain round his neck. ‘You got the dosh?’

‘
Oui.
’

‘Let me see it.’

Gabrielle took an envelope from her bag. The money was in ten-pound notes. She counted them then returned the notes to the envelope.

Connor turned back to J-J.

‘Is he going with you?’

‘
Oui
.’

‘And you say he’s deaf? Really deaf. Can’t hear nothing?’

‘
Oui
.’

‘All right.’ His hand came out for the money.

Gabrielle shook her head. She wanted the address first. That was the deal. No address, no money.

Connor was frowning. He took another look at J-J then nodded towards the estate agent’s window.

‘Over there.’

They left the shelter of the canopy. Jax Bonner had a half-brother, he said. This bloke was the son of the sort her dad had married. He worked as an estate agent, had loads of empty property on the firm’s books. Jax was living in one of them. No one had shown any interest in the place for months. He’d given her the key. On the quiet, like.

‘So what’s the address?’

‘There. That one.’ They were standing outside the estate agency.

Connor’s thin finger was pointing at a scruffy bungalow no camera angle could ever beautify. The property was in Wymering. Walton Road.

‘What number?’

‘Seven.’

‘And she’s in now?’

‘Yeah. She’s always in.’ Connor pocketed the folded notes, then looked at J-J again. ‘She’ll like him, Jax. She’ll think he’s a right laugh.’

 

Winter took a cab to Southampton Airport, arriving a couple of minutes after half twelve. Bazza was already there, beside the news-stand on the main concourse. With him were three faces Winter recognised at once. Two of them were local mates of Bazza’s from way back, both handy scrappers, both football crazy. Winter had used them on the courier service since February and knew they liked a party. The other man was short, thickset, in jeans, new-looking trainers and a Lonsdale T-shirt. His shaven skull was golden under the artificial lights and his mirrored shades made Winter realise he was even fatter than he liked to believe.

Bazza did the introductions.

‘Tommy Peters,’ he said. ‘Face from London. Don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure.’