Happy Days (29 page)

‘So where were you?’

‘In London.’

‘Really? You never mentioned London this morning …’

‘That’s because I didn’t know about it this morning. It was Baz’s idea. He sent me up.’

‘Yeah? And how is Mr Pompey?’

‘Like a dog with two dicks. You’re right, Mist, he can’t get enough of all this politics shit.’

‘That’s because he’s bored.’

‘Maybe.’

‘What else?’

‘I think he believes it. It started as a game, as a bit of a piss-take. You know how he loves winding up the suits.’

‘And now he is one? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah. Exactly. He’ll never fit the mould because that isn’t his way, but Kinder and the other guy, the young guy, have built him the train set of his dreams.’

‘That’s cruel. Baz never had a train set in his life. The only train that ever got his interest was the 6.57. And look where that took him. He’s done all right, though, eh? We all have.’

Winter could only agree. In the immediate aftermath of Trudy’s accident Mackenzie had played a blinder. Trudy had always been family to Baz, and in situations like these he’d spend whatever it took to make things happen.

Impatient to get Trude back on her feet, he’d told Winter to find the top American neurosurgeon in the field and see whether something couldn’t be sorted. Winter had done his bidding, chasing down a high-profile specialist in southern Florida. With some reluctance the consultant at the Salisbury Spinal Unit had emailed Trudy’s X-rays to Fort Lauderdale, and after a lengthy transatlantic phone call Winter found himself looking at a prospective bill for
£
63,500 to fly Trude over for an operation which might, just possibly, work. This was money that Bazza simply didn’t have, as Winter was the first to point out, but the gesture had touched Misty deeply. More importantly, it made Winter realise just how much his boss still meant to her, yet another complication as Operation
Gehenna
hit top gear.

Mist was talking about Trudy again. However hard she tried to change the subject, everything still revolved around her daughter.

‘They’re talking about sending her home, pet.’ She’d reached for the bottle again.

‘When?’

‘First week in May. That gives us a month.’

‘To do what?’

‘Get her room adapted. Get a bed at the right height. Get the taps changed in the bathroom. Put grab handles in the shower. I’ve got a list somewhere …’

‘So you think she’ll be walking properly by then?’

‘I doubt it. You’re supposed to get loads of backup after they’ve left hospital, but reading between the lines it’s going to be down to you and me, pet.’ She leaned across and cupped his face. Her eyes were moist. ‘We just have to keep at her, make sure she keeps trying, make sure she doesn’t give up. I know it
doesn’t sound like Trude, but loads of these PCS people just throw the towel in. You know what I mean?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But we won’t let that happen, will we pet?’

‘Of course not.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. It’s just …’ He shook his head.

‘What?’

‘That first week in May.’

‘What about it?’

‘Are they talking a specific date?’

‘Of course.’ She frowned, trying to remember. ‘The 6th? Would that be right? A Thursday?’

‘Spot on, Mist.’ Winter could only shake his head. ‘Election day.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Only if Bazza wins.’

‘Why?’

‘Because then we’ll
all
be legless.’

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she got it. Legless. Very funny.

Winter was starting to apologise for the lapse in taste when he was interrupted by his mobile. It was a London number he didn’t recognise and he was about to ignore the call when he remembered Irenka.

He slipped off the stool and nodded when Misty reached for his empty glass. Only when he was at the far end of the hall, safely out of earshot, did he answer the call. He was right. It was Irenka. She kept it brief. Winter nodded and checked his watch. He’d have some conversations and get back to her.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Your call.’

PORTSMOUTH: WEDNESDAY, 7 APRIL 2010

Portsmouth’s Marriot Hotel lies to the north of the city, surrounded by a cat’s cradle of new roads. Bazza Mackenzie was in the new ground-floor restaurant, as arranged, by eight in the morning. The hotel was handy for his first political engagement of the day, an appearance at the newly refurbed Queen Alexandra Hospital, just up the road. To his surprise, Cesar Dobroslaw had already arrived.

Dobroslaw was a big man in his late fifties, powerfully built. Over the years, at a handful of meetings, Bazza had never seen him in anything but a suit. Today’s was a subtle grey with the lightest stripe. The white shirt looked box-fresh, and Mackenzie was betting the chunky cufflinks were solid gold. Dobroslaw spent a lot of money on his appearance and it showed.

Mackenzie stepped across to the table, extending a hand, expecting Dobroslaw to get up. When the Pole didn’t move, he slipped into the chair opposite and tried to catch the attention of a nearby waitress. Dobroslaw was already drinking coffee. His big flat face was mapped with tiny broken veins, and Mackenzie caught the faintest hint of a tremor as he lifted the cup to his mouth.

‘Fancy a bit of breakfast?’ Mackenzie was eyeing the spread at the buffet. ‘It’s the least I owe you.’

Dobroslaw shook his head. He’d eaten already. He had to
be back in Southampton by nine. The traffic at this time of the morning was a joke.

Mackenzie wanted to know whether he’d got the money.

‘With me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Of course not. We have solicitors. Solicitors draw up agreements. That’s the way we do business, no?’

Mackenzie tried to mask his impatience. Only yesterday afternoon he thought they’d struck a deal. He should have known better.

‘You’re backing out?’

‘Not at all. We just need to be clear about the details. A hundred thousand is a lot of money, Mr Mackenzie. Or at least it is to me.’

Mackenzie knew he’d come to gloat. Over the years they’d had a number of run-ins, often violent, and on the phone Bazza had sensed the Pole’s intense pleasure at finding his Pompey rival up shit creek. Dobroslaw was one of the richest men on the south coast. A small army of Belorussian toms, imported from Minsk, had laid the foundations for a thriving business empire, and unlike Bazza he’d invested the profits wisely.

‘My solicitor tells me we’ll need the deeds to your house,’ he said.

‘The bank’s got them. I told you yesterday. Eighty per cent of the place is on a mortgage.’

‘A copy, then.’

‘That’s gonna take time. Listen, this is a handshake, right? Your guy draws up an agreement, I sign over my share of the remaining equity, and you give me a cheque. It’s that simple, or am I missing something here?’

‘We need the deeds.’

‘OK. No problem. I’ll get the bank to fax them over. It’s in their interests too.’ He paused, aware that he was beginning to sweat. ‘Are we on the same page here? Or shall I go through it all again?’

Dobroslaw was smiling now. He had Mackenzie exactly where he wanted him.

‘There’s the question of interest,’ he said slowly.

‘We agreed that too. Three per cent for the first month. If it goes any longer we’re talking a one per cent compound escalator per quarter.’

‘Per month.’

‘You have to be joking.’

‘And one per cent is too low. We need at least two.’

‘No way.’ Mackenzie shook his head. ‘I don’t have enough equity left to cover that.’

‘Fine.’ Dobroslaw reached for the cashmere coat folded over his briefcase. ‘Then I’ll be back in Southampton earlier than I expected.’

‘Wait.’ Mackenzie shut his eyes a moment, trying to do the maths. ‘We’re talking ball park around 30 per cent annual interest. Have I got that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t think that’s a rip-off?’

‘Not at all. Thirty per cent is high. Of course it’s high. But you’re telling me this is a short-term loan. I’m doing you a favour, Mr Mackenzie. I’m giving you every incentive to repay the capital and the interest by this time next month. What kind of rip-off is that?’

‘Say it goes tits up? Say there’s a glitch? Say I need the money for longer than a month?’

‘Then I do you another favour and call the loan in.’

‘Sure. And that way I lose my house.’

‘Exactly.’ The smile again. ‘Which is why you’ll pay the money back next month.’

Mackenzie turned the deal over in his head. Whichever way he looked at it, he knew he had no choice. Without the Pole’s money, he was dead in the water.

Dobroslaw, with an extravagant apology for his nosiness, was curious to know why Mackenzie needed the money. He’d
caught the odd mention of
Pompey First
on the local TV news. He’d even read a profile of Mackenzie in his wife’s copy of the
Daily Mail
. Were these two things perhaps connected? The firework blaze of
Pompey First
and yesterday’s phone call pleading for a bail-out?

‘Politics can be an expensive business—’ Mackenzie began.

‘Business?’

‘Commitment. Calling. Vocation. Whatever.’

‘Then why do it?’

‘Because I think it matters.’

‘Really? You believe that? Someone with your background?’

‘What’s wrong with my background?’

‘Absolutely nothing, my friend. You come from where I come from. You come from absolutely nowhere, and you make a great deal of money, and you make life sweet for your family, and you have nice holidays, and you drive a nice car, and then along comes this politics thing, and maybe it’s more complicated than you think, and suddenly you’re on the phone to someone you don’t like at all asking for rather a lot of money. I’m just curious, that’s all. Because maybe politics is more complicated than you think it is.’

‘That’s crap.’

‘You think so?’ Dobroslaw glanced at his watch, then slipped a card from his pocket and placed it carefully on the table. ‘My solicitor. He’ll be glad to get the deeds. Sooner rather than later, eh? From your point of view?’

He began to get to his feet then sat down again at the approach of the waitress. She’d finally noticed Mackenzie and had a very big smile on her face.

‘It’s you.’ She was fumbling for her pad. ‘BazzaMac.’

Mackenzie acknowledged her with a terse nod. This kind of thing was happening more and more often in Pompey, a tribute to Leo Kinder’s promotional skills, and normally Bazza loved the attention. Not now, though. Not in this kind of company.

‘I’ve changed my mind.’ He was looking at the order pad. ‘I’m not staying.’

‘That’s fine. I just want your autograph.’

‘Yeah?’ Mackenzie took her pad and scrawled a signature across the top page.

‘Do I get a kiss? Only my mum’s not going to believe this.’

Mackenzie glanced up at her, then put a cross under his name.

‘Thanks, Baz. And good luck, eh?’

Dobroslaw watched the waitress pick her way between the tables. A chef was ladling out scrambled eggs behind the buffet bar. When the waitress showed him the pad he looked across, grinned and gave Baz the thumbs up.

‘The price of fame, eh?’ Mackenzie tried to hide his embarrassment.

‘Not at all.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘No.’ Dobroslaw pushed the solicitor’s card gently across the table. ‘This is the price of fame, my friend. Let’s just hope you can pay it back.’

Winter and Suttle were at the safe house in Winchester. In the absence of anything drinkable in the kitchen, Suttle had acquired a couple of take-out coffees from a café in nearby St Cross.

Winter explained about last night’s phone call from Irenka. She’d talked to Pavel and got the nod for the proposed arrangement. He’d been sticky at first, but the moment she’d mentioned the money on offer his reservations had vanished.

Suttle wanted to know how much he was after.

‘It’s not him, son. It’s her. She’s screwing us for 25 per cent.’

‘Of a mil?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s 250K.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you’ve told Mackenzie?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He hates it. Pennies matter to Bazza, always have. He thinks a quarter of a million is a little bit on the high side.’

‘But he agreed?’

‘He had to. He has no choice. Worse still, he knows it. Bazza’s the kind of guy who invented the word options. Just now, my son, he hasn’t got any.’

‘You sound pleased.’

‘I am. Most of the time you roll with the punches. Bazza gives you lots of shit, but he pays you well and on a good day you have a laugh or two. But when times get really hard there’s another guy in there, a total fucking animal, and when he’s like that believe me you don’t want to be around.’

‘So what’s happened?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘But I am asking. And we need to know.’

‘We?’

‘Me, Paul. Me.’

With some reluctance Winter told him about the confrontation in his office last night. The warning had been explicit. One step out of line and Winter was a dead man.

‘You believe him?’

‘Too right. I’m not playing the health and safety card, son, but under this kind of pressure the guy’s a ticking bomb. I’ve seen it before. He’s unpredictable. He can kick off at the slightest thing. And when that happens, you seriously don’t want to be in the firing line.’

‘You think he’s sniffed something?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What?’

‘You.’

He explained about the godfather thing. Baz believed in
families, always had, but the Filth were the Filth and you never crossed the line.

‘So how did he know?’

‘That’s a very good question. There’s a guy called Andy Makins who works for us now.’

‘I know. You mentioned him before.’

‘He used to be with the
News
, and Baz seems to think he’s shacked up with another reporter called Gill Reynolds who Baz just happens to fancy.’

‘That’s right. He is.’

‘You
know
about this?’

‘Sure. Gill’s big mates with Lizzie.’