Mackenzie made himself comfortable in an armchair by the window. Winter could tell by his body language that he felt at home here. Nice spread. His kind of people. Definite potential.
‘Paul’s got some news, Stu. You’d better sit down.’
Winter realised Norcliffe knew nothing of last night. Mackenzie had simply demanded a meet. Stu was still on his feet. He wanted to know what had happened. Badly.
Winter explained. When he got to the borrowed bungalow in the New Forest he was aware of Norcliffe looming over him, staring down.
‘
How
long?’
‘A couple of hours.’
‘So what time was this?’
‘Gone midnight when they left.’
‘She phoned me at ten. Said she was out with a couple of girlfriends.’ Norcliffe glanced at his father-in-law. ‘You’re sure about all this?’
‘Paul’s a copper, Stu, or he fucking used to be. I know they’re a bunch of thick bastards but he definitely knows how to tell the time. Eh, Paulie?’ There was an edge of irritation in Mackenzie’s voice. He wasn’t best pleased with any of this, thought Winter. Least of all a husband who couldn’t keep his wife in line.
Norcliffe wanted to know about Madison. What kind of bloke was he? What was the big attraction?
‘He probably looks after her, Stu.’ It was Bazza again. ‘Women like a bit of attention. You may have noticed.’
‘You’re telling me I’ve screwed up?’
‘I’m telling you you’ve taken your eye off the ball. We all like the moolah, Stu, of course we fucking do, but there’s a limit, old son. Ezzie can be a right handful and you’re talking to someone who knows. She’s a princess, always was. If you bugger off every week she’s going to find someone else to tell her how wonderful she is. The fact that she’s chosen a copper to shag is a fucking disgrace but that’s not the point. Playing Ezzie’s little game, you’ve got to be in the mood. If it wasn’t this bloke Madison she’d probably have found someone else.’
‘He’s a
copper
?’ More surprises.
‘Yeah. According to Paul here. And he should know.’
Winter filled in the details. DCI. Used to be a high-flyer. Made enemies wherever he worked.
‘So why did Ezzie pick him?’ The question went to his father-in-law.
‘Because she did, son. Because she was in that fancy gym, miles from home, miles from you lot, and I expect he said something nice to her, gave the eye, told her what great shape she was in, bought her a drink or two, played Prince Charming, did the same next time, and the time after that, and before Ez knows it she’s having a bit of a think about what it might be like, no harm in trying him out, seeing where it might lead … Are you getting the picture here? Or do you need Paul to spell it out? You heard the man just now. The way he tells it they were in that shag pad the best part of a couple of hours. You think they were watching
telly
?’
Norcliffe said nothing. There wasn’t enough money in the world to buy him out of this kind of humiliation.
‘Another thing, son.’ Mackenzie hadn’t finished. ‘According to Paul, this guy’s Major Crime, or used to be. He’s in a hole now, big time. And you know the stunt he’s trying to pull? He’s telling Paul that Loose Lips, your fucking wife, my own fucking
daughter
, has been speaking out of turn. About what we’ve been up to. About the business. About stuff that could hurt us badly. We need to know whether that’s true, son, and I need to know whether you’re the one who’s gonna pop the question.
Comprende?
’
‘You mean talk to Ezzie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’d kill her.’ Norcliffe’s voice was soft. ‘The way I’m feeling at the moment.’
‘I don’t blame you, son. I’d probably do the same. So that leaves Paul here.’ He glanced across at Winter. ‘I’ll drop you off at Ezzie’s place on the way back. Golden Bollocks will have been onto her by now so I expect she’ll be expecting a little visit . You happy to do the honours?’
Faraday was back in his office at Major Crime when Steph Callan phoned from the Road Death Investigation Team. He could sense at once it was going to be a tricky conversation.
‘I’ve just belled the duty Inspector at Cosham. He says you were talking to him an hour or so ago.’
‘That’s true.’
‘About Jeanette Morrissey’s camper van.’
‘Right again.’
‘Reported stolen first thing Sunday morning.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Aren’t we supposed to be part of this little game? Or is it true about you guys?’
‘True, how?’
‘That you’re all cowboys. Always nicking the best jobs. Always on the bloody take.’
Faraday sat back, the phone loosely to his ear, letting her get it off her chest. How the stolen-vehicle examiner had come up with a list of local VW camper registrations. How one of them had belonged to Jeanette Morrissey. And how G467XBK had been ghosted away under cover of darkness last Saturday night.
‘Jeanette Morrissey was the mother of a lad killed in the city here, back in November. I think I mentioned him the first time we met. Operation
Melody
,’ said Faraday.
‘The one where Munday was the prime suspect?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Jeanette Morrissey was the victim’s mum?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well …’ she was close to losing control, ‘thanks a bunch for telling me.’
Faraday began to defend himself, explaining about the intel dredged up by Suttle, then realised there was no point. Trying to argue his case with anyone in this kind of mood was hopeless.
‘The
Melody
file’s still open,’ he said. ‘My DCI is SIO. As far as she’s concerned, the hit-and-run belongs to
Melody.
Her name’s Gail Parsons. If you’ve got a problem with any of this, maybe you should be talking to her.’
He put the phone down and got to his feet. DCI Parsons was in her office down the corridor. She took one look at Faraday and waved him into the chair beside the desk.
Briefly, Faraday explained the situation. Jeanette Morrissey owned a red VW camper van. Early forensics seemed to be tying the same kind of vehicle to the hit-and-run. Morrissey had ample motivation for running Munday over and now she was claiming the camper had been nicked. So just who was going to run with this?
‘You are, Joe.’ Parsons nodded at her PC. ‘I had a confirming email from Mr Willard this morning.’
‘So no more grief from the Road Death lot?’
‘Absolutely not. Mr Willard is arranging an attachment.’
‘A what?’
‘They’ll be sending someone down to join us on
Melody
. Strictly in the interests of peace and quiet. I had their Inspector on the phone just now.’
‘And?’
‘It’s Steph Callan again.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Though I gather she hasn’t been told yet.’
Bazza Mackenzie phoned ahead to tell his daughter to make sure she was at home for the next couple of hours. The au pair took the call and promised to pass the message on. When Mackenzie told her to get Ezzie to the phone she said she couldn’t. Mrs Norcliffe was out riding. Back any time soon.
Heading south again in the Bentley, Winter seized his chance to pin Mackenzie down on the Tide Turn Trust. Nothing would be sweeter than turning his back on the whole caboodle but small start-up charities had a habit of generating endless day-to-day problems and already the stuff was piling up on his desk. If Bazza really wanted him to sort out this looming threat to the Mackenzie empire, then something had to be done about TTT.
Mackenzie, for once, saw the point.
‘What do you need?’
‘I need someone with a good track record with kids, someone who understands all the legal bollocks, someone who’s been doing it a while, someone who’s going to make us look good.’
The last phrase brought Mackenzie’s head round.
‘Someone like who?’
‘I haven’t a clue, Baz, but these things don’t just happen. We have to advertise. We have to put the word around. We probably have to go through all sorts of fucking dramas. But it has to be done.’
Mackenzie nodded. A truck in the slow lane rapidly got bigger. Then it was gone. He glanced across at Winter again.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Lippy kids aren’t your game. Get someone in.’
Ezzie and Stuart lived in a seven-acre spread on a flank of the Meon Valley. The previous owner had knocked down a pair of cottages and built a rambling hacienda-style property in white stucco and black wrought iron, and several years later, despite the carefully tended Virginia creeper, it still reminded Winter of something that had been shipped up from Spain and dumped in the middle of rural Hampshire. The swimming pool that Stuart had commissioned, with its underwater lighting and quaintly thatched bar, didn’t help. Neither did the recently built stable block where Esme kept her horses.
Mackenzie had no intention of staying. He dropped Winter outside the front door, pulled the Bentley into a tightish circle and disappeared down the drive. The au pair was trying to console the youngest of Esme’s kids. Kate had just fallen off her plastic trike. Winter wondered whether four wasn’t young for lipstick and lime-green nail varnish.
‘Ezzie around?’ Winter nodded past the open front door.
The au pair shook her head. She was a Czech girl with a name that no one seemed able to pronounce: Evzenie. Mrs Norcliffe was in the bottom field on her horse. Not in a good mood.
‘The horse?’
‘Mrs Norcliffe.’ The girl laughed, scooping up the child and disappearing inside.
Winter took the path that skirted the house, stepping over a trail of discarded toys. In the distance he could see Esme driving the biggest of her horses at a series of jumps. As far as Winter could gather, she’d been in the saddle since she was a kid, part of her mum’s plan to shield her from a Pompey adolescence. Getting close to animals, according to Marie, was altogether more healthy than hanging out in Southsea bars and clubs, though the way it turned out Esme had done plenty of both.
Winter paused, hugging the fence, waiting for Esme to finish her round. He’d never liked horses, never trusted them, and his certainty that Esme knew this was going to make the next half-hour even trickier.
She clipped the last hurdle, reined the horse in, and turned it towards Winter. The horse was huge: huge eyes, huge girth, huge everything. Esme brought it to a halt barely feet away from the fence. The horse stamped its feet, tossed its head, tried to rid itself of the bit between its yellow teeth.
‘You getting off or what?’
‘Say what you have to say, Paul. It’s just a shame my dad didn’t have the bottle to do this himself.’
‘He’s pissed off, love.’
‘I bet. And what a little saint he’s always been. Have you met the lovely Chandelle, by any chance?’
Winter let the dig pass. She was right, though. Bazza had never seen the point of monogamy, least of all when it came to his new hotel manager.
Winter peered up at Esme. The sun was in his eyes and all he could see was her silhouette on top of the horse. Clever.
‘We need to talk, love. Here’s not the place.’
‘What is there to talk about?’ Esme was still resentful. ‘You seem to know everything already.’
‘That’s bollocks, love. Get off that fucking thing and act like a human being. I’m even less thrilled about this than you are. You’re right. This is family. So how come I get the arse end of everything?’
The question, voiced with some feeling, drew the beginnings of a smile from Esme. She hesitated a moment, then bent to the horse’s neck, gave it a pat and dismounted. Winter caught a perfume she’d never worn before, not to his knowledge. New man in her life, he thought, new scent on the pillow.
‘Here …’ She gave him the reins and leant back against the fence to remove her boots. Winter gave the horse the eye. It began to back away.
‘Be nice to him.’ Esme was laughing again. ‘Animals can smell fear. Here …’
She gave Winter her boots and took the reins. Winter hadn’t a clue why she wanted to walk barefoot back to the stables but was glad to be shot of the horse.
‘Your dad’s spitting nails,’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘And Stu too.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Couple of hours ago. He’s gone back to London.’
He explained about the meet in the manor house. It turned out she’d spent a couple of weekends there.
‘Stu fancies the guy’s wife. Did he tell you that?’
‘No.’
‘She’s German. I can’t remember her name. We all got pissed the first evening and ended up in the jacuzzi. Stu speaks decent German. Had the woman in stitches.’
‘A looker?’
‘Yeah, big time. Body to die for and big-time fit. The husband bought her a gym for Christmas - treadmill, weights, rowing machine, the lot. Stu said she couldn’t get enough of it. Funny that.’
‘We’re talking exercise?’
‘I think so. You never know with Stu. He thinks I’m thick sometimes, I know he does. And that might turn out to be a big mistake.’
‘You’re blaming him?’
‘Not at all. I’m blaming no one. We do what we do. Stuff happens. Que sera …’
They’d arrived at the stable block. Esme told Winter to sort out some feed while she got rid of the saddle and the rest of the tack. Kate had turned up by now, a plaster on her knee, and she led Winter to the empty stall where the oats were kept. Winter had seen a lot of the kids over the last couple of years. Esme brought them to his apartment in Gunwharf sometimes and he let them raid the fridge for Coke and banana smoothies. He liked their spirit and the way they all looked out for each other.
The horse stabled and fed, Esme called Evzenie on her mobile and asked her to take Kate back to the house. There was a pile of hay bales against one corner of the stable block and Esme made herself comfortable in the warm sunshine. The earlier hostility had gone. She’d decided to treat Winter as an ally.