One Under (57 page)

‘Not especially.’

‘You’re a friend of Señor Mackenzie.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’ve come over because of his brother.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Because you and Señor Mackenzie are …’ He frowned. ‘ … Friends.’

‘Spot on, son. Bazza and me go back a while. And it happens you’re right. I am a cop. Or was. I’m also a mate of Bazza’s. A family friend. Here to support the lad. Here to help. Here to do my bit.’

‘But cops never stop being cops. And that could be a problem.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Si.’
His gaze had settled on Winter’s face. ‘I have a question for you, Mr Winter
.
It’s a very simple question. As it happens, I know about your friends, about Señor Mackenzie, and I know about you. This man is a cop, I tell them. It’s all over his face, the way he talks, the way he moves, his eyes, who he watches, how he watches, everything. Sure, they tell me. The man’s a cop. And a good cop. A good cop turned bad. But clever. Useful. Me? I tell them they’re crazy.
Loco.
And wrong, too. Why? Because, like I say, cops never stop being cops. Never.
Nunca.
Not here, in Spain. Not in my country. Not in yours.
Nunca.
Whatever they say.
Nunca
.’

‘And the question?’

‘Tell me why you’re really here.’

‘You’d never believe me.’

‘I might.’

‘OK. And if you don’t?’

‘It will be bad, very bad. For you. And maybe for us also.’

‘How bad is very bad?’

‘The worst.’ He smiled.
‘Lo peor
.
’

Winter took his time digesting the news. Bazza had pointed out this man twice in the last couple of days, once pissed, once sober. His name was Riquelme, though everyone seemed to called him Rikki. He was Colombian. He was said to hold court in a four-star hotel along the coast. Not a gram of cocaine came into Cambados without his say-so.

Rikki was still waiting for an answer to his question. Winter swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm lager and glanced at his watch. Conversations like this he didn’t need.

‘I’m fifty in a year or two …’ He looked up …‘ And you know the present I’ve always promised myself? Retirement. No more fannying around. No more working my arse off for people trying to stitch me up. No more chasing brain-dead junkies around. But you know something about my line of work? It doesn’t pay. Not the kind of money I’m going to need. So what do I do? I look for someone who might take me seriously for once. And for someone who might understand what I’m really worth. Happens I’ve found that someone. And that someone, just now, needs a bit of support.
Comprende?
’

Winter waited for some kind of response. The Colombian studied him for a moment or two, then produced a thin cheroot.

‘Bullshit,’ he said softly.

There are no post-mortem clues for last impressions. Was this body on the slab really asleep when it happened? Was he dreaming? Or did some faint scrape jolt him into wakefulness? Did he half discern a strange shape - mysterious, uninvited, inexplicable - beside the bedroom door? Did he hear the lightest of breaths? A footfall on the carpet? Was he aware of a looming shadow in the darkness? And maybe the soft rustle of clothing as an arm was slowly raised beside the bed?

Faraday, watching the pathologist lift the glistening brain from the cup-like remnants of the shattered skull, could only wonder. Soon, he thought, they’ll be developing a test for all this, some kind of clever biochemical method for reproducing a man’s last thoughts imprinted before the neurones shut down for ever. The process would doubtless be both lengthy and expensive but days later investigators would find themselves looking at a multicoloured printout, admissible in court, a digital snapshot of this man’s final seconds of life. What had gone on inside his brain. What he’d seen. What he’d felt. The green line for apprehension. The red for disbelief. The black one, the thickest, for terror.

Looking up, the pathologist caught Faraday’s eye. Earlier, before peeling back the face, he’d indicated the powder burns on the pale skin of the man’s forehead. Now he pointed out the pulpy blancmange of the frontal tissue, pinked with blood and tiny fragments of bone where the bullet had tumbled into the deep brain, destroying everything in its path.

‘Single shot.’ He murmured, reaching for the scalpel, ‘Unusual, eh?’

It was. Driving back to the Major Crimes suite at Kingston Crescent, Faraday pondered the investigative consequences of the pathologist’s remark. The post-mortem he’d just attended was a coda to the day’s events, a painstaking dismemberment of flesh, bone and connective tissue that normally yielded a modest helping of clues. Killings were usually ill-planned, spontaneous explosions of violence, sparked by rage or alcohol, or a simple desire to get even, and that kind of retribution left a telltale spoor of all too familiar wounds. In this case, though, it had been evident from the start that the Major Crime Team were dealing with something very different.

A single bullet at point-blank range was the mark of a professional hit, a calling card rarely left at Pompey scenes of crime. The news had found its way to the duty D/C at Major Crimes at 07:56. An agency cleaner, failing to raise the tenant at a leased house in Port Solent, had let herself in. In the master bedroom lay the body of the man she knew as Mr Mallinder. At first she’d assumed he’d overslept. Only when she saw the blood on the sheet beneath his head did she take a proper look at his face. She’d never seen an entry wound before and the statement she’d volunteered that afternoon had recorded the faintest disappointment. So small. So neat. So different to what you might have expected.

Faraday had driven up from the Bargemaster’s House, pushing north against the incoming rush-hour traffic, summoned by the Duty D/S at Kingston Crescent. Port Solent was a marina development tucked into the topmost corner of Portsmouth Harbour. No. 97 Bryher Island was an end unit in a tightly packed close of executive houses, and uniforms had taped off the scene within minutes of their arrival. By the time Faraday added his ageing Mondeo to the line of cars in the central parking bay, an investigator from Scenes of Crime was already sorting out a pile of silver boxes from the back of his van.

‘Beautiful job.’ He nodded towards the open front door. ‘Nice to have a bit of quality for once.’

 

Back at Kingston Crescent, early evening by now, the car park was beginning to empty. Faraday slotted his Mondeo into a bay beside the rear entrance and spent a moment or two leafing through the post-mortem notes he’d left on the passenger seat. Amongst them was a reminder to phone home and tell Gabrielle that their planned expedition to the Farlington bird reserve would have to wait.

He peered out through the open window. After another glorious September day, it was still warm, the air thick with midges. Shame, he thought. There would have been swallows everywhere, a manic scribble of scimitar wings overhead, and later a chance for Gabrielle to pit her camera skills against a classic Pompey sunset.

He took the stairs two at a time, with a steely resolution that lasted until the first landing. A minute or so later, still out of breath, he put his head round the door of the office that housed the Intelligence Cell. D/C Jimmy Suttle occupied one of the three desks.

‘So what’ve you got for me?’

Suttle abandoned a packet of crisps, wiped his fingers on the chair, and reached for a notepad. Still on light duties after a serious run-in with a Southsea drug dealer, the young D/C had surprised even himself with his talent for coaxing some kind of picture from a multitude of databases and carefully placed phone calls.

‘You want the story so far?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The guy was a property developer. Jonathan Daniel Mallinder. The firm’s called Benskin, Mallinder. His oppo’s name is Stephen Daniel Benskin. They work out of a suite of offices in Croydon. The stuff they do is mostly residential, town-centre developments, mainly in the south. I talked to the FIU and belled a couple of contacts they gave me. Seems that the blokes themselves, Benskin and Mallinder, are a bit of a legend in the business. Came from nowhere but put together some really shrewd deals. Class operators. Staked out some territory of their own. Real respect.’

Faraday nodded. The Financial Investigation Unit was an obvious port of call in a case like this.

‘You’ve talked to Benskin?’

‘Yeah, this morning. I assumed the news would have got through but it turned out it hadn’t. The bloke couldn’t believe it. He was sitting in Heathrow waiting for a flight to Barcelona. He’ll come straight back after the meeting and says he’ll be down here first thing tomorrow.’

Suttle glanced up, his finger anchored in the pencilled scribble on his notepad. According to Benskin, he said, Mallinder had been shuttling down to Portsmouth for a while in a bid to sort out a major project. Lately, he’d been staying over for nights on end. Hence the three-month lease on the house in Port Solent.

‘Project?’

‘The Tipner site. You know when you come in on the motorway? The greyhound stadium? The scrapyard? All that? The land’s zoned for development. It’s complicated as hell but it seems that our Mr Mallinder had become a player. There was nothing signed and sealed but it seems that he was keen to have the whole lot off the people who own it. Benskin says that Mallinder was looking for a result before Christmas.’

Faraday sank into the chair across the desk. Tipner was a muddle of terraced houses, light industrial sites and acres of scrapyard littered with the bones of dismembered military kit. The spur motorway straddled the scrapyard and on the harbour side, for years, incoming motorists had enjoyed a fine view of a rusting submarine alongside the tiny quay. The sight had often brought a smile to Faraday’s face. It buttonholed you. It made no apologies for the mess. It was chaotic, deeply martial and spoke of the perpetual struggle to make money out of half-forgotten wars. As an introduction to the rest of the city, it couldn’t have been more perfect.

‘What are they going to do with the site?’

‘Develop it. There’s a kind of plan already. Basically, we’re talking offices, a bit of retail, plus a load of apartments. That’s where the real money is. Secured parking, poncy kitchen, balcony you can sit out on, nice view of Portchester Castle, three hundred grand a shot, easy.’ Suttle glanced up. ‘That’s according to an estate agent mate of mine. Put in a couple of hundred units and you’re looking at serious money. No wonder Mallinder was up for it.’

‘What else have you got on him?’

‘Married, Wimbledon address, two kids, both school age.’

‘Anyone been in contact with the wife yet? Apart from the local uniforms?’

‘Me, boss. She’s coming down tomorrow with Benskin first thing. Jessie’s going to find somewhere up near Port Solent for her to use as a base. The scene won’t be released for a while yet.’

‘Jessie’s FLO?’

‘Yeah.’

Jessie Williams was a long-serving D/C, new to major crimes, with a smile that could warm an entire room. As Family Liaison Officer, she’d be doing her best to buffer Mallinder’s widow from the pressures of the coming days.

Faraday sat back in the chair, turning his gaze towards the window. Try as he might, he couldn’t rid his mind of the sight of Mallinder’s brain, lying in a shiny stainless-steel bowl, swimming in a thin broth of pinkish fluids. How many enemies might a man like this have acquired? Who had he upset?

‘Form?’

‘Nothing to get excited about. Got himself involved with a traffic stop a couple of months back. Some kind of dodgy manoeuvre on the A3 running north towards Petersfield. The woollies let him off with a caution.’

‘But nothing on PNC?’

‘Zilch.’

‘Shame.’

The Police National Computer listed all known offenders. A conviction for fraud or money laundering would have been nice, thought Faraday. In these situations you were always looking for short cuts, the first hints of debts unsettled, just a single tiny straw poking out through the toppling haystack of a man’s life.

‘Timeline?’

‘He came down from London yesterday morning. His wife said he left after breakfast. His diary had a couple of meetings in the afternoon, one with a council bloke, the other with a planning consultant. That last meeting went on a bit and they had a drink afterwards.’

‘Where?’

‘Gunwharf.’ Suttle named a pub, the Customs House. ‘The guy he was with says Mallinder was on good form. In fact this guy would have stayed for a meal with him but he had to get home.’

‘So Mallinder ate alone? At the Customs House?’

‘As far as we know, though the girl at the food bar couldn’t put a face to the card slip. His next-door neighbour in Port Solent says he was back at the house around half nine. It all seems to fit.’

‘And he was alone then?’

‘No idea. She just heard the car pull in.’

‘Did she say anything else? Anything …’ Faraday frowned ‘ … about regular visitors, for instance?’

‘Yeah. Seems Mallinder had a girlfriend.’

‘Description?’

‘Asian girl. Medium height. On the young side. Nicely dressed. Called by three or four times that the woman knew about, mostly around ten. Stayed an hour or so, then left.’ Suttle was grinning. Not rocket science, is it?’

‘A tom?’

‘Has to be. The guy’s married. He has kids, a career, a reputation, all that bollocks. Plus he’s probably minted. A proper relationship, a girlfriend, she’d probably have stayed the night. No …’ He shook his head. ‘A tenner says Mallinder was buying it. Makes every kind of sense.’

‘She came by car?’

‘On foot, according to their neighbour. Need we enquire further?’

Faraday nodded. Suttle was probably right. Currently Port Solent supported two escort agencies, both catering for the higher end of the market. For someone in Mallinder’s position company was a phone call away.