No Lovelier Death (44 page)

‘Wrong, Baz. We met years ago.’

‘Albany,’ Peters confirmed. ‘I was doing a five for attempted murder. This cunt fronts up one afternoon, tries to turn me into some kind of supergrass.’

‘Never worked, though, did it, Tommy?’ Winter extended a hand.

‘Can’t say I blame you.’

Peters refused the proffered handshake. Travelling with Winter was clearly something of a surprise. Bazza took them both to one side.

‘Paul works for me now, Tommy. Has done for the best part of a year.’

‘And you’re telling me you fucking trust him?’

‘Tommy, I fucking do. And I’ll tell you something else. You will too. Or you’re back on the fucking train.’

Peters removed the shades and for a moment Winter wondered whether this little scene was about to turn ugly.

‘Give me one reason,’ he said, nodding at Winter. ‘I’m a reasonable bloke. One’ll be enough.’

‘OK.’ Bazza nodded. ‘This morning we had to bin a motor. It happened to be an Alfa. I told Paul here it was going to a scrapyard in Swindon. I chose Swindon because there’s only one yard there and I happen to know the bloke who owns it. I won’t go into details, Tommy, but that motor can put me inside. Now young Paul, he has half the morning to make a few calls, arrange an interception, get the yard staked out, whatever. That’s if I’ve got him wrong after all this time. And you know what? Not one cunt turned up. I checked with the owner half an hour ago. Clean as a whistle.’

Winter had listened to the story with growing interest. The implications were all too obvious.

‘So where did the Alfa really go?’ he enquired.

‘Basingstoke, you daft cunt.’ Bazza shot him a grin. ‘You think I’m stupid?’

 

Mackenzie had hired an executive jet. After cursory passport checks Bazza’s party clambered aboard. Seven leather seats on either side of the tiny fuselage left plenty of room for an on-board hostess but to Winter’s disappointment Bazza had designated himself master of ceremonies. The flight down to Malaga, he announced, would take three hours. He’d be serving chilled Krug and burgers on the way down, something a bit livelier on the return trip.

‘When’s that then, Baz?’ It was Peters. Evidently he had an important meet with a lawyer back in Slough on Tuesday.

‘Tomorrow, Tommy. Or maybe Monday. Depends.’

The plane took off, climbing steeply over Southampton’s city centre. As the view was shredded by low cloud, Mackenzie caught a glimpse of St Mary’s Stadium, home to the city’s football team.

‘Fucking Scummers,’ he muttered to no one in particular.

Minutes later, with the plane levelling out in bright sunshine, he made his way back to the tiny galley. The pop of a cork announced the first bottle of champagne and Bazza’s reappearance with a silver tray and four brimming flutes sparked a round of applause.

Only last year Winter had been on a similar outing - to watch Pompey playing away at Middlesbrough - and the madness of the weekend had left a permanent impression. Not because Bazza allowed himself to become the plaything of the millions he’d stashed away from the cocaine biz, but because he loved to celebrate the reach and the status the money had given him. Twelve months later that instinct to establish himself in life’s pecking order was no less strong. Indeed, given the likely consequences of Westie’s recklessness, it was probably even stronger. No one, thought Winter, would ever be silly enough to underestimate Bazza Mackenzie. Especially now.

He settled back in the seat, his glass empty, the sun on his face. His eyes closed and he was enjoying the warm anticipation of a little doze when he felt a touch on his arm.

It was Bazza. He had a fresh bottle of Krug and he’d perched himself on the arm of the empty seat across the aisle.

‘Splash more, mush?’

‘No thanks, Baz.’

‘Very wise.’

Winter opened one eye again. He knew Bazza in this mood. He recognised the tone of voice.

‘Not just a jolly then?’

‘Afraid not.’

Winter twisted in his seat to look back down the plane.

‘It’s Westie, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘And is that why Tommy’s drinking Coke?’

 

A morning of steady rain had done nothing for 7 Walton Road. Gabrielle pushed in through the gate and picked her way across the broken paving slabs. A steady dribble of water from broken guttering splashed onto the stained single mattress abandoned beneath the front window and a smeared note on the door warned intruders about the resident Alsatian. The note drew a wag of the head from J-J. He’d never liked dogs.

Gabrielle knocked at the door. Moments later a face appeared at the neighbouring window. It was a girl’s face. She was wearing a flat cap and heavy make-up. She was beautiful, Gabrielle thought. Full lips, a slash of deep scarlet on a wonderfully pale face.

The face disappeared and moments later the door opened.

‘Jax Bonner
?
’

The girl nodded. She was looking at J-J.

‘Your friend, right?’

‘
Oui.
Connor? He phoned you?’

‘Yeah. Come in.’

The house smelled of damp. J-J padded warily from room to room.

‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘He hates dogs.’

‘But why is he deaf? Why can’t he hear?’

‘
Sais pas.
With some people it’s that way forever, from birth.’

‘Weird.’

‘Sure. But you learn to get by.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Nearly thirty.’

‘He looks younger.’ She frowned. ‘Weird,’ she said again.

J-J had rejoined them, more relaxed now. The dog was outside in the tiny back garden, chained to a drainpipe. J-J found himself a space on the sofa. Apart from the sofa and a single dining chair, the room was bare.

‘You’ve lived here for long?’ he signed.

Gabrielle translated. Jax couldn’t take her eyes off J-J’s hands, always on the move, always shaping fresh thoughts.

‘Nearly a week,’ she said.

‘It’s shit,’ he signed.

‘You’re right.’ She nodded. ‘But better than the Bridewell.’

Gabrielle couldn’t translate Bridewell into sign, partly because she hadn’t a clue what the word meant. Jax was looking at J-J. She tried to draw a cell with her hands, up and down movements for the bars, then the turn of a key in a lock and an extravagant outward movement as an imaginary door swung open. J-J made her do it again, then gave her thumbs up.

‘Prison,’ he signed to Gabrielle.

This tiny pantomime broke the ice. For the first time Jax smiled. Her teeth were stained and broken in that perfect face.

‘You’re the French woman working with the kids, right?’

‘Yes
.
’

‘So what’s that about?’

Gabrielle moved the dining chair so she could see J-J and then sat down. She explained she was working on a project for a French university. It had to do with gang structures among kids, here and in France. One day it might make a book. In the meantime it was her business to listen.

‘And what do the kids tell you?’

‘Lots of things.’

‘Do they tell you how crap this country is?’

‘Sometimes they tell me how crap their lives are.’

‘Same thing. Crap country. Crap lives. Except the kids you’re seeing are too young to fucking understand it.’

‘Connor?’

‘He’s too stupid. Plus he smokes too much weed. Just like his fucking brother. You know Clancy? I’ve given him houseroom until we have to move on. He’s like Connor when it comes to weed. He tells me he can’t sleep without it. Twat.’ She paused, staring at Gabrielle. ‘So what do you want?’ It seemed more than a question. It was a challenge. You’ve found me here, she seemed to be saying. You’ve got beyond my door. You’ve invaded my space. This better be worth it.

‘We need to talk about the party.’

‘Why? Because your boyfriend asked you?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘In a way, yes.’

‘Connor says he’s Old Bill.’

‘
Comment?
’

‘Filth. Police. A cop.’

‘That’s right. He is.’

‘So why isn’t he here?’

‘Because he doesn’t know where to find you.’

‘But you’ll tell him, won’t you? You’re bound to.’

‘No
.
Unless you want me to.’

‘
Want
you to? Why the fuck would I want to do that? The Filth are like everyone else. Stitch you up as soon as look at you.’

‘You think that?’

‘I know it. They stitched my brother up. That’s why he’s inside. That’s why I’ve been spending a fortune going off to see him every time they bother to give me a fucking visit.’

‘And the party? On Saturday?’

‘They’ll do me for that. I know they will. They’ll do me for the two kids by the pool. Prime fucking suspect. They’ll do me for every fucking thing. Why? Because they’re lazy and because they’re evil. You say you live with this bloke? This Filth? Eat with him? Sleep with him? If you think he’s a human fucking being, if you think there’s an ounce of decency in him, try looking a bit harder. It’s under your nose. Shit …’ She shook her head, turned her face away. ‘Why do I bother with all this stuff? Why does anyone?’

Watching her, Gabrielle felt the first prickle of fear. The kids were right about Jax Bonner. In moments like this she was out of control, insane,
complètement folle.

Be careful, they’d told her. She carries a blade. She lashes out. She doesn’t care who she hurts.

Gabrielle glanced at J-J. She’d told him a little about the background on the bus coming up: the party, the two bodies, Faraday trying - as ever - to make sense of it all. This girl’s the closest they’ve got to an answer, she’d said. She hates the world and she doesn’t care who knows it.

J-J signed a question. Jax wanted to know what it was.

‘He’s asking whether you killed Rachel Ault.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t.’

Another question, more complex.

‘Would you liked to have done?’

‘Dunno.’

‘But you might?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she was a spoiled little rich kid. Because life had looked after her. Because she’d got everything. And because she had that arsehole judge as a father. You know something else, though?’ She was looking directly at J-J. ‘She was lost. You could see it. And it wasn’t just us turning up. I watched her. I watched her on and off most of the night. She was pissed as a rat, totally wasted, but her eyes … Fuck.’ She shook her head again. ‘You know something? I’ve probably got a happier life than her. And I mean it.’ She broke off, looking to Gabrielle for a translation.

Gabrielle did her best. J-J was looking thoughtful.

‘You really mean that?’ He wanted to know.

‘Yeah. Definitely. I’ve taken some shit in my life, believe me. I can be a bad person too. I do horrible things. I hurt people. And sometimes I even enjoy it because I think they deserve it, because it gives me a kick to see them in pain, but deep down I know who I am. She didn’t. Not that girl. Not that Rachel. She was all over the place. So now I think about it, there’d be no point.’

‘In what?’ It was Gabrielle this time.

‘Hurting her. Killing her. Whatever. No point at all.’

Jax nodded at J-J as if she’d stumbled over a small but important truth. J-J signed that he believed her. The news made her laugh.

‘Big fucking deal.’ She was looking at Gabrielle. ‘So what do you do now? With all this?’

Gabrielle studied her for a long moment, and then got to her feet. ‘I go back to my friend,’ she said. ‘And I translate for him too.’

SATURDAY, 18 AUGUST 2007
. 15.41

Willard brought the news from headquarters. Force Intelligence, he said, had picked up rumours of a candlelit wake for Rachel Ault and Gareth Hughes, a week on from their deaths. Their friends planned to gather in Sandown Road at dusk. There might be music and readings. There’d doubtless be tears. There might even be more flowers.

Willard had found himself a seat in Faraday’s office. Suttle was there too.

Faraday wanted to know where the intelligence had come from.

‘Facebook,’ Suttle told him. ‘It’s been up on the Rachel page since yesterday.’

Faraday permitted himself a smile. This was how the madness had begun, he thought. There were no secrets any more. People had forgotten how to be private, how to be discreet. The world of word-of-mouth, of the whispered invitation or the card through the door, had gone. Every life was public property, broadcast, advertised, flaunted. That way you might get to be famous.

‘The Public Order boys are doing a risk assessment.’ It was Willard.

‘The last thing we need is a repeat of last week. The Chief’s giving serious thought to having the demo banned.’

‘It’s not a demo,’ Faraday pointed out, ‘it’s a wake, a farewell.’

‘That’s not the way he sees it. Neither, I imagine, will our Craneswater friends.’

Faraday shook his head. Madness was too small a word. The prospect of banning a bunch of kids with candles on the grounds of public order was surreal.

‘How about Ault? It’s his daughter, after all.’

‘Ault won’t express an opinion either way. We understand he’s selling up.’

Faraday nodded. The news came as no surprise. He was a shell of a man, as damaged as the house he’d once called home.

Suttle wanted to know whether the judge had joined forces with the residents’ association. If anyone had a case against the forces of law and order, it was surely Ault.

‘Not at all. As I say, he seems to have had enough … which is a bit of a bonus, to be frank. The last thing we need is someone of his weight against us. Especially if this wretched thing goes ahead tonight.’

The prospect of another round of press and TV interviews appeared to fill Willard with gloom, a realisation that Faraday found deeply amusing. A week ago the Head of CID had lost no time courting the headlines. Now, with
Mandolin
still empty-handed, he was growling about unnecessary distractions. Live by the media, Faraday thought, die by the bloody media.