Authors: Graham Hurley
‘Gillie?’ Winter raised an eyebrow.
‘Yeah. Gillie. Great tits. Great conversation. First time we met she drank me under the table. Turns out she worked with Makins before he left the
News
. That’s why she sent him our way. The guy’s at a loose end. She says he’s given up on all the corporate bollocks and wants to do something real with his life. If we can get him for fuck-all money, so much the better, eh?’ He glanced at his watch and produced a mobile. The receptionist answered on the first ring. ‘Trace? Baz. Send the guy down.’
Andy Makins appeared at the door within seconds. He was small, thin, pale, intense, with thick-lensed glasses and a scary side parting, a greasy lick of hair falling over one eye. He wore a Ramones T-shirt under an ill-fitting tweed jacket he must have picked up in a charity shop and had a Palestinian scarf wound round his scrawny neck. The black jeans had definitely seen better days, but the lime-green Nike High-Tops looked brand new. He stepped into the room, unpeeled the scarf and blinked at the faces around the table. Kinder, Winter sensed, couldn’t believe his eyes. His brand of political consultancy had little room for a fashion statement this muddled. Baz, on the other hand, loved him at first sight. The way Makins went round them all, damp handshakes, major eye contact and a smile that blossomed like a firework. This was the kind of guy you don’t come across too often. Definitely a trophy find.
‘Welcome, son. Take a seat.’
Makins settled in. Bazza asked him whether he’d like a
coffee. He said he’d prefer Coke. Bazza made another call then asked him how much he knew about
Pompey First
.
As it happens, Makins was facing the wall of sample posters.
‘Cool.’ He nodded in approval. ‘I like that one.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one on the left.’
Baz was beaming. It was his favourite too.
Pompey First – Because the Last Lot Screwed Up
.
‘So why do you like it, son?’
‘Because it’s simple. And because it works.
First? Last?
They’re the keys. The best commercial messages are like poetry. Same principle. Keep it simple. Compress. Bombard.
First. Last
.’ His tiny fists flailed the air. ‘Bam bam.’
Baz was hooked. Winter could tell. Even Kinder seemed to be taking an interest.
‘But how much do you know about us?’ he asked.
‘Not much. I know you’re local, obviously. I know you’re a bit off the wall. I know you probably want to kick the shit out of the other lot. Beyond that, to be honest, it’s a all a bit of a mystery.’
‘How come?’
‘Because I know zilch about politics.’
‘Might that not be a handicap?’
‘No way.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s a selling job. This is retail, not politics.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. I’ve no idea what you guys really believe, but that’s not the point, is it? The point is you want to make an impact, you want to get your names out there. So …’ he peered round ‘… maybe there’s some way I can help.’
‘How?’ This from Bazza.
Makins gazed at him for a moment. Then he ducked his head and picked at his fingers and mumbled something about
Gill. She’d given him the impression that
Pompey First
might be up for something a bit radical. Like social media.
‘We are, son. We are.’
‘Then I’m the guy you need.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because it’s not just a question of Facebook and Twitter. Those are just the doors you have to kick in. It’s what you do when you get through to the other side that matters.’
‘Are we talking sockpuppet accounts here?’ Baz was grinning now. He’d picked the term up from Kinder but Winter wasn’t convinced he really understood what it meant. Kinder, meanwhile, was watching Makins with some interest. Social media was his baby and he didn’t want her kidnapped.
‘Well?’ he said.
There was a note of warning in Kinder’s voice but Makins ignored it. His eyes had never left Mackenzie.
‘Sockpuppets are a must,’ he said. ‘But how do you use them? Who do you target? Where do you cause most trouble?’
‘Tell me, son.’
‘You get to the people who don’t normally vote. You get to blokes, especially. You set up groups. You get in among the lads’ mags crowd, the Pompey fans. There’s a squaddies’ website, full of gossip - that’s a must. You lob in the odd hand grenade, stir it all up, get them onside, make these guys want to get out and vote. Most of them wouldn’t know a vote from a hole in the road. Why? Because it isn’t cool, because it’s not on their radar. This city’s full of guys who don’t care a fuck about politics. By next year that has to change.’
‘And this is how you do it?’
‘This is one way, yeah. Even if they vote for a laugh, the vote still counts.’
‘There are other ways?’
‘Of course.’ Makins was revved up now, full throttle, the fox in
Pompey First
’s hen coop. ‘YouTube’s an obvious tool. You’d be mad not to use it. You need a couple of guys with
the right equipment to start making those punchy little movies that are going to tune people in. Once you’ve shot and edited the footage, this stuff’s for free.’
‘So who does the donkey work?’
‘Students. These people are ten a penny. The uni’s full of guys who think of nothing but making their name on screen. Put the word around, and you’ll have queues at the door.’
‘And what do they make? What are these movies about?’
‘That’s down to you. This place can be a nightmare on a Friday night. Why don’t you start there? Why don’t you start hoovering up all that stuff in Guildhall Walk when the clubs start chucking out? Why don’t you get stuck in when it kicks off at the burger bars and the kebab vans afterwards? If you get the packaging right, a dozen pissed clubbers kicking the shit out of each other are worth a hundred votes.’
‘For us?’
‘Of course.’ His eyes strayed to another of the posters. ‘
Pompey First – Because Enough is Enough
. That’s a great message. All I’m talking is delivery. All the images are out there. All we have to do is put them in the right order.’
Bazza nodded in agreement. Winter had seen this reaction before. He was spellbound. ‘And you’re telling me you can make this happen?’ he said.
‘Of course I can. Plus lots of other stuff. I need more time to get my head round what you guys really want, but like I say we’re talking retail, branding, all that bollocks. Conversation costs nothing. Believe me, anything’s possible.’
‘So what would you need? From me?’
The question brought Makins to a halt. Winter was watching Kinder. Me, not us. Bazza had taken over, and he knew it.
‘Well, son?’ Bazza wanted an answer.
‘I’ll need a space of my own and some money to make it happen.’
‘A space here? At the hotel?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And the money? We’re talking wages?’
‘No, I’m talking some kind of development budget. If you buy into the student thing, I need to nail down the production costs. Plus I’ve got some other ideas that might be a little pricier.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t want to say. Not yet. But this is stuff no one’s ever tried before, which is why you’d be mad to say no.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Because the real exposure’s gonna come from the mainstream media. My job is to take them into the jungle, show them all kinds of exotic stuff, get them chattering, get them impressed, get the buzz going. That way you get two hits for every quid you spend. And I’m not just talking Pompey.’
Mackenzie pulled a pad towards him and scribbled himself a note. Then his head came up.
‘How much then? For development?’
‘A couple of grand to start with. That may be more than we need.’
‘And you? Wages?’
‘Four grand a month. The moment I don’t deliver, we call it quits.’
‘Two grand.’
‘Three. In cash.’
‘Deal. I’ll sort you a room upstairs. Sea view or something round the back?’
‘Sea view.’
‘Good call, son. You know rule one in this fucking world? Never undersell yourself.’ Mackenzie extended a hand across the table. Then, as an afterthought, he glanced at Kinder. ‘You’ve been a bit quiet, Leo. All this stuff OK with you?’
Kinder said nothing. Mackenzie got to his feet. A waitress from upstairs had appeared at the door with a frosted glass of Coke, but Makins ignored her. He was looking at Winter.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
PORTSMOUTH: MONDAY, 21 SEPTEMBER 2009
Suttle did his best to raise Winter on his mobile but failed. Parsons had wrung a grudging go-ahead for renewed negotiations from Willard at headquarters and she was now demanding feedback by close of play. With a busy afternoon of intel meetings, mainly on the stranger rape, Suttle knew he had little alternative but to pay Winter a visit before lunch. With luck, he might be in his Blake House apartment.
Suttle left his Subaru in the big underground car park at Gunwharf and emerged into bright sunshine. Shedding his jacket, he strolled along the canalside promenade, trying to plot the shape of the coming conversation. Every undercover operation, he knew, was fraught with difficulties, but this one would be especially tricky. By recruiting Winter, as he’d already pointed out to Parsons, they’d spare themselves the time and effort of inserting someone new into Mackenzie’s business empire, but the fact remained that Winter was a loose cannon.
Suttle knew him far better than anyone else in the force and liked to think that the kinship they’d established in their early years would survive whatever lay ahead. But it was Winter himself who had taught Suttle the darker arts of CID work, and the instincts he’d acquired from this apprenticeship told him to be extremely cautious. By turning informant, Winter was putting everything on the line. As, indeed, was Suttle. In both cases the gamble might well pay off. Winter would be a free
agent again, armoured by the Witness Protection Programme, while a result with Mackenzie would do Suttle’s promotion prospects no harm at all.
Suttle smiled to himself, thinking of Lizzie. Only this morning, wearied by the traffic and the shrieking covens of fat single mums, plus all the other hassles of living in Pompey, she’d floated the idea of moving somewhere a bit quieter. This was music to Suttle’s ears. He’d grown up in a council house on the edge of a small village in the New Forest, and something deep inside him had always wanted to get back to the country, but it had never crossed his mind that Lizzie might feel the same way. As a working journalist, she’d always relied on the flood of stories that a city like Portsmouth could generate, but those days were over now, at least for a year or two, and it was obviously becoming harder and harder to keep the place at arm’s length. Lizzie had always regarded her own space, her own turf, her own peace of mind, as sacrosanct, but the fact was that Pompey had a habit of getting in your face. Enough, she seemed to be saying.
Blake House lay on the other side of the canal. Suttle pressed Winter’s button on the video entry panel and waited for an answer. When nothing happened, he tried again. Finally came a voice he dimly recognised. Not Winter at all.
‘Jimmy Suttle.’ She was laughing. ‘You look so much older.’
‘Trude?’
‘Yeah. Come in.’
Suttle rode the lift to the top floor. Trudy Gallagher was Misty’s daughter. Years ago, before he wised up to the inevitable consequences, she and Suttle had got it together. For a couple of giddy months Suttle had wondered whether he might even be in love, but shagging the daughter of Bazza Mackenzie’s mistress was deeply reckless. No way was Mackenzie going to allow the Filth anywhere near his nearest and dearest, and the relevant message had been delivered one wet night outside a Gunwharf nightclub. As a result of his injuries, Suttle had
spent a couple of nights in hospital, emerging on crutches to explain himself to his bosses, and since then his contact with Trude had been limited to a single exchange of Christmas cards. In hers Trude had suggested eloping to South America. It was a sweet suggestion, underscored with a line of fat kisses, but – with some regret – Suttle had declined.
Now she was waiting for him in the hallway outside Winter’s flat. Her hair was tied back in a way he’d never seen before and her jeans were splashed with white paint. She had a deep tan and had lost a lot of weight.
‘You look great …’ he said ‘… fabulous.’
‘So why don’t you kiss me?’
Suttle obliged her with a hug. She smelled of burned toast.
‘Paul says you’re married.’
‘He’s right.’
‘With a kid.’
‘Right again.’
‘Happy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Really?’ She held him at arm’s length.
‘Yeah.’
Barefoot, she led him into the flat. Most of the carpet in Winter’s big living room was covered with a dust sheet. A pair of wooden steps was propped against the far wall, and a roller tray at the foot of the steps was full of paint. Magnolia. Winter’s favourite.
‘So what’s this?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘Since when have you become a painter and decorator?’
‘Since Saturday. It’s Mum’s idea. Paul’s selling the place, and she thinks a coat of paint might get the punters through the door.’
‘Selling the place?’ Suttle tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.
‘Yeah. Paul’s moving in with Mum, over in Hayling Island.
She says she can’t wait, the old slapper. Can you imagine that? Mum and Paul going legit?’
Suttle couldn’t but didn’t say so. Instead he wanted to know about the tan. Trude led him through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She’d been out in the Canaries, she said, working as a rep with a company in Fuerteventura. The hours were shit and the punters were worse, but she’d hooked up with a local guy who ran a windsurfing school. Hence the tan.
‘You can windsurf now?’
‘
Sí. Y hablo español
.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t be. I can order a beer and tell the guys I don’t fancy to bugger off, but that’s about it. When it comes to windsurfing, I spent most of the time in the fucking water.’
‘And the boyfriend?’