One Under (29 page)

He glanced up at Winter.

‘Couldn’t manage a padlock, could you?’

 

Martin Barrie, to Faraday’s surprise, was openly sceptical. He wrapped up a phone call and joined them at the conference table. Winter had been at his desk since half past seven, preparing a brief report for the Scenes of Crime team. Uniforms had been guarding Mackenzie’s property all night.

‘I thought this guy was supposed to be smart?’

‘Arrogant, boss.’ Winter was a man transformed - eager, attentive. ‘Smart took him to the big time. Now he doesn’t bother.’

‘So he just leaves this stuff lying around? Knowing what we’ll have retrieved from the tunnel? He’s had a week to get rid of it, hasn’t he? That’s not arrogance, that’s just dumb.’

‘Happens, boss. Believe me. This is Pompey, remember. And Bazza couldn’t give a shit.’

Faraday ducked his head. The Detective Superintendent had a point. The same questions had occurred to him. One step at a time, he thought.

‘We need a good look at the caravan, sir,’ he said to Barrie. ‘We’re sorting the warrant at the moment.’

‘And Mackenzie?’

‘He’s not taking calls. I just talked to his solicitor. She says she’ll get back to me within the hour.’

‘No need to be hasty though, eh? Not yet. Not until we’ve got something to attack him with.’

Faraday nodded his agreement. Only when SOC came up with hard evidence to link the caravan with Duley would there be any point in pulling Mackenzie in.

Winter was looking aggrieved. He abandoned his notes and leaned towards Barrie.

‘Begging your pardon, boss, but this is wake-up time, isn’t it? Mackenzie’s taking the piss. He thinks he’s home free. He thinks he’s been home free for years. We need to give him a shake, remind him who’s in charge. By holding off, we’re sending exactly the wrong message. Yeah, of course we put a search team into his caravan, upset the neighbours, all of that. But the longer we leave him, the longer he’s got to sort himself a decent alibi. Mackenzie’s got favours coming out of his ears. Half this town owes him. A couple of days, and he’ll be interview-proof. I guarantee it.’

This, for Winter, was a major speech. Faraday, watching the blood pinking his face, wondered why it had become so personal.

Barrie remained unconvinced. He wanted to know about Mickey Kearns.

‘Him too,’ Winter said at once. ‘We need to lean on the boy, pull him in, ask him some serious questions. The way I hear it, he owes Mackenzie and a whole lot of other guys over the Margarita trip. Bazza will be telling him he has to work the debt off. That’s a lot of graft. The right kind of pressure, and he might be really silly and dob Mackenzie in it.’

‘You think he took part in the beating? Supposing it happened in the caravan?’

‘More than possible. Kearns has just been grassed up. He’s lost a ton of someone else’s money. The way he sees it, it has to be down to Duley. He’s trusted the bloke, had a few beers, made him part of the team. Then, bingo, it’s all turned to rat shit. So Duley, number one, is on a severe slapping. And young Mickey can’t wait to lend a hand.’ Winter had a smile on his face. ‘Does that sound kosher or am I missing something here?’

‘What if it was Kearns who took the money?’

‘Then it works even better, doesn’t it? In fact, it’s game, set and match. Duley gets whacked. Denies everything. Knows it wasn’t him. Bazza starts having thoughts about young Mickey. At this point young Mickey wants Duley off the plot entirely. He also needs to score a few points of his own. You know the way it is round here. Violence-wise, the tariff’s going through the roof. The younger you are, the more psycho you have to be. Blame it on the movies, the video games, whatever, but a serious kicking doesn’t cut it anymore.’ Winter was looking at Barrie. ‘You with me, boss?’

‘You’re telling me that Kearns might have put Duley in the tunnel?’

‘I’m telling you that sticking a grass on the railway track with his legs apart would have them creaming themselves in Buckland. That’s ultra-violence. Serious cred. Plus, like I say, it gets Kearns out of one fucking big hole.’

There was a moment of silence. Then Faraday stirred. Already, he’d briefed the detectives studying CCTV vehicle footage to look for a black BMW 4×4. But supposing Winter was right about Kearns, where would that leave Mackenzie? Winter had seen the question coming.

‘With a load of questions to answer,’ he said. ‘It’s Bazza’s caravan. Bazza’s rope. Bazza’s fucking apprentice. No one can tell me he wasn’t in on it. Kearns is the monkey, boss. Why ignore the organ grinder?’

 

Bazza Mackenzie turned up at Kingston Crescent an hour later. He had his new solicitor in tow, a trim, ferociously aggressive Hong Kong Chinese with an Oxford degree and an accent to match. Passers-by paused to watch as she slid from Mackenzie’s Mercedes SL500, adjusted her skirt, bent to retrieve her calfskin briefcase and headed for the front door. Mackenzie, in a dark business suit, followed her. He’d left the car on double yellow lines in the station forecourt, the windows still down.

Faraday took the call from the front desk. A Nelly Tien wanted a word. Said it was urgent. Faraday thanked the desk officer, then put the phone down. Two years ago he’d led an undercover bid to entrap Mackenzie. Operation
Tumbril
had swallowed months of Faraday’s working life and he’d ended up with a painfully detailed understanding of the kind of power and influence that large-scale dealings in cocaine could buy. Mackenzie’s reach extended into every corner of the city and when
Tumbril
collapsed amidst a welter of recrimination, Faraday had made a mental note to learn the lesson. This man’s very success had given him everything to lose. He was clever. He could afford to buy the best professional advice. And when a threat materialised, like now, he confronted it at once.

After a precautionary call to Martin Barrie, Faraday headed for the stairs. Halfway down, he had second thoughts, returning to the Major Crimes Suite. Winter was bent over the filing cabinet in the Intelligence Cell.

‘Mackenzie’s at the front desk,’ Faraday said. ‘I gather he’s come for a chat.’

They met in an empty office downstairs. Mackenzie had put a little weight on since Faraday had last seen him, but he looked tanned and fit, and whatever he was using on his hair had taken years off him. The blond Pompey businessman with a finger in so many pies.

Winter was the last to sit down. Faraday noticed the smile on Mackenzie’s face.

‘All right, Paul? Life treating you OK?’

‘Never better, Baz. You?’

‘Cushy, mate. This is Nelly, my brief. Can’t believe the rubbish restaurants in this city. Wants me to sort out a decent Chinky. Any ideas?’

Winter held his gaze for a moment or two, then glanced at Faraday and sat down. Nelly Tien had already produced a yellow legal pad and a Mont Blanc fountain pen. She was interested in nobody but Faraday.

‘You phoned this morning. My client was unable to take your calls at the time but is happy to help you in any way he can. So … ’ She offered Faraday a cold smile. ‘ … What seems to be the problem?’

‘We wanted a key, Ms Tien.’

‘To what?’

‘A caravan.’

‘But what’s that got to do with Mr Mackenzie?’

‘I understand it belongs to him. At least, it’s on his premises.’

Winter was watching Mackenzie. For the first time it occurred to him that he might be unaware of the search team descending on Hayling Island.

Just a flicker of curiosity. Or more likely irritation. ‘Where’s that?’

‘North Shore Road, Mr Mackenzie. The officer in charge has a search warrant.’

‘On what grounds?’ It was the solicitor again. The sharp sideways flash of her eyes warned Mackenzie to leave it to her.

‘We’re pursuing enquiries in connection with a recent death. The magistrate was satisfied that a search of the caravan might be pertinent to those enquiries.’

‘On what grounds?’ she repeated.

‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that information. At least, not yet.’

‘My client has a right to know. It’s his property.’

‘Your client will be given the appropriate information at the appropriate time. All you need to know for now is that we shall complete the search as expeditiously as we can. And that we shall, of course, be arranging for a replacement lock. In the meantime it might be useful if Mr Mackenzie could furnish us with a list of workmen with access to the caravan. As you say, it’s his property.’

‘Big deal,’ Mackenzie murmured. ‘This is about Duley, isn’t it? Little fucker in the tunnel?’

There was a long silence. Winter was grinning. Nelly Tien had folded her arms. She looked extremely angry.

At length, Faraday glanced at his watch.

‘I’m going to have to make this formal,’ he said. ‘Ms Tien, we’ll be conducting the rest of this interview at the Bridewell. Under caution.’

‘What if I don’t want to come?’ Mackenzie wanted to know.

‘I’ll arrest you. Your choice.’

Faraday got to his feet. Nelly Tien was staring up at him.

‘Arrest Mr Mackenzie for what?’

‘Suspicion of murder.’

‘
Murder?
’ Mackenzie was laughing now, leaning forward over the table, eyeballing Winter. ‘When? How?’

‘Are you coming to the Bridewell or not?’

Faraday had got to the door. Mackenzie ignored him.

‘Duley got himself killed on Sunday, right? That’s what they’ve been saying all week in the
News
. So why don’t you ask me where I was Sunday night? Isn’t that what you blokes do? Check it all out? Draw your little diagrams? Lay yer little traps? Go on then. Ask me. Put the question. You think I got this tan in fucking
Petersfield
?’

Winter gave the question some thought. Then brought his face very close to Mackenzie’s.

‘Big mistake, Baz, leaving Misty like that.’ He patted his hand. ‘She gets lonely, you know. Misses it.’

 

Faraday detailed Winter and another DC to accompany Mackenzie and his solicitor to the interview suite at the Bridewell. Returning to his office, he picked up the phone. DS Brian Imber, to his knowledge, was still operating from the Intelligence set-up at Havant police station. As a key part of
Tumbril
, he too had been badly burned by the collapse of the operation and had kept the file open ever since. Winter was the only other officer in the city with in-depth knowledge of the shape and spread of Mackenzie’s empire, and after the last fifteen minutes Faraday badly needed a second opinion.

‘Brian? It’s Joe.’

Quickly, Faraday summarised the case against Mackenzie. At the Bridewell he’d doubtless be running a cast-iron alibi. What Faraday wanted was a steer to other names.

‘Like who, Joe?’

‘Heavies. Blokes on the payroll who’d be happy to put the boot in.’

‘Strap someone to a railway line, you mean?’ Already, Faraday knew how fanciful it sounded. Imber had another word. ‘It’s rubbish, Joe. There’s no way Mackenzie would sanction anything like that. This guy didn’t get rich by pulling stunts. It’s cartoon stuff. You’re away with the fairies.’

‘Names, Brian. Just give me names.’

Imber obliged. There was an ex-matelot called Jamie Frensham who occasionally knocked people around for a lot of money. There was another bloke, much younger, who specialised in terrifying sitting tenants out of properties Bazza wanted to acquire. Then there was a new guy, Brummie hardman, to whom Bazza had recently taken quite a shine.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Brett West. They call him Chalky. He’s black. First met Mackenzie through the football. Useful player. Once had trials for Villa.’

‘And you say he’s violent?’

‘He’s whatever Bazza wants. Man for all seasons, Brett. Good with a drill if you want a kneecapping. Babysits, too, the way I hear it. Very keen on the laughing powder though, so he can be a bit of a liability.’

Faraday added his name to the list. Duley had been beaten up a couple of weeks ago. West sounded a definite runner and was maybe in the frame for the tunnel job as well. He put the possibility to Imber.

‘No chance, Joe. Absolutely none.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Chalky’s been inside since May. Possession with intent to supply. Didn’t even bother to go No Comment. No, Joe. Based on what you just told me, I’d be amazed if Mackenzie had anything to do with this Duley. It’s just not his MO. He’d be off his trolley even thinking about it.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. The slapping in the caravan, if there was one? Maybe. Pompey’s full of nippers who can’t wait to be Bazza, and if this Kearns blew a load of stake money, then Mackenzie would definitely want a word or two. Duley sounds like a handy target and Kearns would have to be brain-dead if he didn’t take advantage of that. But the Buriton job? That’s unnecessary, completely over the top. You can stick a lot on Mackenzie, and personally I’d love to, but I’ve never had him down as theatrical.’

Theatrical
. Faraday paused. He’d used the term himself. Imber, as ever, was right. The carefully composed tableau in the tunnel, torn apart by the train then painstakingly reassembled in the chill of a Winchester post-mortem room.

Theatrical
.

‘I’m grateful, Brian.’ Faraday was already on his feet. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

 

The interview at the Bridewell dead-ended after the first ten minutes. En route from Kingston Crescent, Faraday had checked with Jerry Proctor about progress on the search of Mackenzie’s caravan. Proctor had confirmed bloodstains on a mattress and on an area of lino under a table but it would be forty-eight hours at least before he could establish any DNA link with Mark Duley. His team, he said, would probably be through by close of play. The caravan was largely empty, its use evidently confined to blokes on site who wanted to use the Calor gas stove to make themselves a brew. As far as fingerprints were concerned, they’d so far gathered more than a dozen lifts, and were still counting. They’d also be looking for tyre marks around the property that might offer a match to the casts recovered from the plantation next to the railway line.