One Under (30 page)

Faraday shared the interview with Paul Winter. Under normal circumstances he’d have devoted a couple of hours to careful preparation but, as the Detective Superintendent had already pointed out, this exchange with Mackenzie was hopelessly premature. As ever, Pompey’s premier drug baron had forced his hand.

The formal caution did nothing for Mackenzie’s temper. Ignoring his solicitor, he challenged Faraday to pin down his movements over the previous weekend.

‘The guy Duley’s in the tunnel on Sunday night, right?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘OK, so ask me. Go on, fucking ask me.’

‘Mr Mackenzie—’

‘Mr Mackenzie, bollocks. Ask me where I was. Ask me what I was doing. Ask me how I can prove it. Is all that a bit straightforward for you? OK, here’s where I help you out. Wednesday the week before last, I go to Heathrow. I take an Emirates flight to Dubai. Naturally I go first class because that’s the way that successful people like me travel. You want proof of that? I have a ticket. I have a boarding card. I have a nice little stamp in my passport. Plus I have a trillion extra air miles because I’m the ragheads’ favourite passenger. OK, that puts me three thousand miles from Pompey. What do I do then? Well, things being the way they are, I fancy getting my head down. So it’s off to the Burj Al Arab hotel, and seconds later I’m spark out. Over the next week I’m shopping. And getting nice and bronzy. And having a little punt on the horses. And guess what, Mr Detective, on Sunday, I pull a winner at - wait for it - twenty to one. That’s more money in five minutes than you clowns earn in a couple of months. And you want more bad news? I’ve still got the winning slip
and
one of those nice digital photos with the date and time on it. Mate of mine took the photo that night. We were back at the hotel having a bevvy or two. That’s the Burj again, butler service for every suite, enough Krug to fill the bath, three in the fucking morning, Monday the eleventh. So how come bad Bazza’s supposed to be in some khazi of a tunnel? Three thousand miles away?’

‘You obviously know Duley.’ It was Winter.

‘Who said?’

‘You know his name. Back in our nick you called him a “little fucker”. You’re right, too. He’s a streak of piss. Or was. But how did you know?’

‘I don’t. I never did. Where I come from, “little fucker”’s a phrase. It’s someone who causes umpteen people all kinds of grief.’

‘Grief? What kind of grief?’

‘This for starters. I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve got better things to do with my time than listen to bollocks about caravans. Whatever happened to the guy, he probably deserved it. But don’t even begin to think you can put me in the frame.’

There was a brief silence. Before the interview started Faraday had mentioned the discovery of certain items from North Shore Road to Mackenzie’s solicitor. Now he wanted to discuss this matter in greater depth. Mackenzie wasn’t having it.

‘Sash cord? Some poxy chain? Bit of angle iron? You guys are off the wall, totally out of order, and, more to the point, you know it. Stuff goes missing from building sites every minute of the day. That’s why we have to chain it up. Any more of this pantomime and I’ll tell the Dragon Queen here to do you for harassment. You fancy that? Only believe me, she’s awesome when she really gets going.’

At that point, led back to his chair after heading for the door, Mackenzie had gone No Comment. The interview, as far as he was concerned, was over.

Faraday drove Winter back to Kingston Crescent. Winter was looking glum. True, they could nick Mackenzie any time they liked and drag him back to the Bridewell but, without evidence, it would simply provoke another mouthful.

‘Some of that felt personal.’ Faraday was waiting for the lights to change in Fratton Road.

‘I’m not with you, boss.’

‘You and Mackenzie. The dig about Misty. What was all that about?’

‘I was winding him up. Normally works, too.’

‘I don’t buy it. There’s something else, isn’t there?’ He glanced across at Winter. ‘When did you last see Mackenzie, as a matter of interest?’

‘Can’t remember,’ he said at last. ‘Must have been a while ago.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter forced a smile. ‘Weeks ago probably. I’m crap at dates.’

‘OK.’ Faraday nodded. ‘So what did you make of the interview? Still convinced that Mackenzie was involved? ’

‘In the slapping, definitely.’

‘And the tunnel?’

The lights went green. Winter turned away.

‘No fucking comment,’ he muttered.

 

Back in his office, Faraday brooded. Brian Imber was a good copper, one of the best. Winter, too. Between them, these two men could probably muster fifty years of CID experience. Both knew the city backwards. And both of them, despite Winter’s obvious disappointment, had virtually ruled out any direct link between Mackenzie and what was left of Mark Duley once the train had torn him apart.

The Detective Superintendent was due back in an hour or so. Ahead of this evening’s squad meeting, Faraday had to come up with new lines of enquiry that somehow took account of yesterday’s finds at North Shore Road. All three items recovered from the property had been dispatched for detailed forensic examination and Faraday himself was in no doubt that they would supply a perfect match for the articles recovered from the tunnel. Workers on site with access to the caravan had been pulled in for detailed questioning. But where, without a breakthrough, would that take
Coppice
?

Faraday lifted the phone. He wanted an update on the billing enquiries on Duley’s mobile plus a full list of cars caught on CCTV returning to Portsmouth in the early hours of Monday 11 July. Maybe they’ve already managed to trace a black BMW, he thought. Or maybe the time’s come to widen the CCTV search parameters. Southampton. Chichester. Brighton. Wherever.

Babs answered Faraday’s call to the Intelligence Cell. As far as she knew, they were still waiting on billing and cell site data from Vodaphone but she’d give the TIU a ring and see if they could exert any extra pressure. Regarding the CCTV logs, she had a list that she was pretty certain was up to date.

‘Is there a black BMW 4×4 on there?’

‘Wait one, sir. I’ll check.’

She was back on the line within a minute. DCs working down at the CCTV control room, she said, had logged 127 cars between 03.00 and 04.00. After registration checks, they’d so far done house calls on eighty-four owners.

‘What about the rest?’

‘Most of them were out, sir. They’re still doing call-backs. I’m sure DC Winter will keep you posted.’

‘Is he there?’

‘No, sir. He’s popped out for some air.’

 

Paul Winter sat in the café, glad of the swirl of fag smoke and conversation that thickened the brutal heat of the street outside. When he was really low, he had a habit of adding an extra spoonful of sugar to his mug of tea. This afternoon he’d seriously thought of emptying the entire bowl into the thin brown liquid that passed, in this place, for a cuppa.

Life, to Winter, had always been about coming out on top. Year after year, the city had delivered his share of trophy convictions, small-time or quality criminals who, one way or another, had underestimated the matey quip and easy smile and found themselves paying the price in court.

In this ceaseless hunt for battle honours Winter had won himself a reputation that he cherished. Many of his colleagues viewed him with alarm. A handful, when pressed or legless, acknowledged that he had a kind of genius, an instinct for human weakness that he deployed with great charm and equal ruthlessness. Winter, they confessed, was unmatched as a thief-taker, a talent they put down to the way he’d been made. Had he not, through some accident of circumstance, gone into the job, then he’d doubtless have been a career criminal, and a good one. Big spread in Malaga. Nice motor. Plus a reputation around the city for staying several laps ahead of the Filth.

Winter cherished this reputation of his. Until very recently he hadn’t wanted, or needed, friends. Neither was he especially fussed about accumulating a stack of money, or any of the other consumer goodies that seemed to badge everyone else’s tiny lives. No, what fuelled him, what roused him every morning with a smile on his face, was respect. People knew his name. People took notice. People talked about him. And when they did so, they never took him lightly.

Saturday night and Sunday morning had changed all that, and he knew from the expression on Mackenzie’s face that word would have gone round. They’d lifted him before it was even bloody dark. They’d stuffed him in the back of some twat builder’s van, they’d driven him around for a while, played with him, and been clever enough for once not to let slip a single clue. For all he knew, Mackenzie himself may have been in the van. Alternatively, on top of the photos they’d snapped, he may have bunged them a video camera, demanded a tape, struck copies, sent them round to selected friends. A little present, he’d have said. Pull up an armchair. Switch on the telly, Pour yourself a drink. Enjoy. He’d even let them feed him a couple of chips, for fuck’s sake. And when they’d finally pushed him into the night - bollock naked - they’d scribbled the world a little message for luck. Winter the tame monkey. Number 47. What kind of reputation could he expect after that? Criminals he could handle; humiliation was something else.

They had his mobile too, and Winter’s heart sank still further at the thought of what they could do with it. As Faraday had pointed out, there were countless numbers on the SIM card. Thankfully, he’d always kept a separate mobile for informants, but here, now, he could list two dozen officers - from Detective Superintendents downward - who would be obvious candidates for a wind-up call or two. I expect you’re wondering how we got your number, the voice would say. And I expect you’re wondering just who the fuck I am. So why don’t you talk to that nice DC Winter? And while you’re at it, maybe you should ask him about the tiger prawns … eh?

Winter shuddered at the prospect, surprised that it hadn’t happened already. By facing Mackenzie down in the interview he’d done his best to win back the merest hint of self-respect, but he knew that this brief truce couldn’t last. Sooner or later, Mackenzie or one of his trusties would cash in on all those numbers, and at that point Winter would be history.

All his life he’d been a fan of black-and-white World War Two movies. His all-time favourite was
The Cruel Sea
. Just now, he thought, I’m in mid-Atlantic, it’s blowing a gale, and some clown up on the bridge has just spotted the torpedo tracks off the starboard bow. Send a pipe, Bosun. All hands to action stations.

Brilliant. But what the fuck could he do? He took a sip of the tea, then pushed it away. Last year the tumour in his brain had - for once - robbed him of the initiative. For months he’d been vulnerable, helpless, his very life in someone else’s hands. It had been an experience he’d never wanted to repeat yet here he was again, equally vulnerable, equally helpless. Not his life, this time, but his living. Could he really survive in the job without his precious self-respect?

He got up, picked his way amongst the crowded tables, knowing already the answer.

 

Faraday sat at his desk, waiting for the number to pick up. A woman’s voice answered on the third ring, a warm Canadian accent. Faraday asked for Barbara Large.

‘This is she.’

‘I’m looking at a brochure for something called the Annual Writers’ Conference. Am I talking to the right person?’

‘You should be. I run it. But I’m afraid you’re a bit late. It’s been and gone.’

Faraday said he understood that. He was a police officer, CID. He was pursuing an enquiry in relation to a Mr Mark Duley.

‘I know that name,’ she said at once. ‘He was here last month, a delegate of ours.’

‘You met him?’

‘I shook him by the hand.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Because he won one of our prizes. The first 500 words of a thriller, I think. I’ll have to check.’

Faraday felt a faint quickening of his pulse, the merest tremor of excitement; after the door that Mackenzie had slammed in their faces, the faintest scrape of another handle beginning to turn.

Barbara Large was talking about someone else, a published writer who’d run a workshop at the conference. Her name was Sally.

‘Sally Spedding?’ Faraday had the brochure open in front of him, the workshop circled in scarlet biro. ‘Page eight? “Who Do You Think You Are?”’

‘That’s her. That’s who you should be talking to. Mark was in her workshop. That’s four hours on a Friday night, and another session on Sunday. They’re pretty intense, these workshops. You can get to find out all kinds of stuff.’ She paused. ‘You mind me asking something?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Why the call? Is Mr Duley in some kind of trouble?’

‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’

‘Really?’ There was a long silence. ‘Dead, how?’

For a moment Faraday hesitated. Then he realised there was no point withholding the information. Duley’s death had been all over the local paper. For days.

‘He got hit by a train,’ he said. ‘In a tunnel north of Portsmouth. There’s evidence that he was chained to the line.’

Another silence, even longer. When she finally came back on the phone, she sounded shocked.

‘Maybe you ought to read the piece he wrote,’ she said. ‘I remember it now. Gifted, sure. But kinda spooky, too.’