Happy Days (23 page)

‘Afraid not,’ he said.

‘No?’ She turned on the light. She wanted him to see her disappointment. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve got a breakfast meet.’

‘Where?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Who with?’

He ignored the question. She could hear the splash of water from the bathroom. He’s trying to sober up, she thought. Ready to tempt some other woman into bed.

When he stepped back into the room, she threw back the duvet. Andy was climbing into a pair of cargo pants she’d just given him for Christmas. She was secretly glad the fit was less than perfect.

‘You look great.’ She held her arms out. ‘Kiss me.’

He shook his head.

‘Use the back entrance,’ he said. ‘It’s safer.’

‘Is that a come-on?’

‘No.’ He had the grace to smile. ‘You’ve worn me out.’

The pre-Christmas party at the Royal Trafalgar had become the must-have invite on the Pompey social scene, but this time round Marie and Bazza had cast the net wider than ever. The night had been blocked off for months in the reservations book,
and the entire ground floor was a swirl of Pompey’s movers and shakers.

Between them, Bazza and Leo Kinder had spent the best part of a year taking the
Pompey First
message into every corner of the city’s establishment. At first the response had been lukewarm. Bazza Mackenzie came with baggage. He was interesting company to have round to dinner, a laugh a minute when he was pissed but a potential liability if you looked too hard at his past.

Were you dreaming when an ex-football hooligan, one of the 6.57’s legendary scrappers, told you he was going to stand for Parliament? Were you tempted to laugh when he told you that money wasn’t a problem but he’d value your support in other more important ways? And when he phoned you again, inviting you to the hotel for a drink and maybe a meal, and carefully explained just exactly what he and his team had in mind for this city of yours, did you put the whole thing down to half a lifetime on the white powder?

The answer, in all three cases, was probably yes. But then the vibe about Bazza’s little wheeze began to change. People in the know, people with brains in their heads, started to take a harder look at the draft manifesto Leo Kinder was discreetly circulating. One or two elements were wildly inappropriate – how could the city ever afford a tunnel to Gosport under Portsmouth Harbour? – but there was other stuff in there that was surprisingly refreshing. Like the bid to attract Chinese investment capital into the dockyard, thus making it easier for the next government to protect the carrier programme. And like Bazza’s determination, against all odds, to sort out the city’s wayward youth.

In the latter respect, of course, the guy had form. In his youth he’d been as evil and wanton as the next Pompey toerag, but over the last couple of years he’d turned all that experience to good account, founding a charity called Tide Turn Trust. T3, as he’d started calling it, was dedicated to bringing Pompey
wrong ’uns face to face with the real consequences of the stuff they’d been up to, and under the guidance of a gifted Dutch social worker, T3 had begun to make modest headlines in specialist journals across Europe. This did the city no harm at all, a welcome twist on the age-old Pompey reputation as a good place for a ruck, and there were people in this very room who – at the end of Whitehall committee meetings – had taken senior civil servants to one side and whispered about the blessings of grass-roots visionaries like, yes, Bazza Mackenzie. The guy’s as rough as a badger’s arse, they’d murmur. But by God he gets things moving.

Stories like these always found their way back to Bazza, and as the
Pompey First
roadshow began to gather speed, people who knew him well noticed a change in his behaviour. He was quieter, less aggressive, more reflective. He’d never had a problem with self-belief. He’d always known he was sharper, and braver, and altogether more up for it than any other fucker. But he’d lost that raw punchiness which, in his prime, had been his trademark. Today’s Bazza was a businessman who knew his way around a balance sheet, a father who’d defend family values against any left-wing muppet who thought he had better ideas, and – most important of all – the favoured son of a city that, in Bazza’s view, had always drawn the shortest of straws. In time of war, as he always liked to point out, Pompey got the best of everything. But the moment the ink dried on the peace treaty, the money went back to London. Pompey, in his view, had always been short-changed. And that had to stop.

The buffet dinner was nearly over. Guests were circulating in the huge dining room, moving from table to table, pausing for an exchange of gossip or a shared confidence, their conversation warmed by a well-thought-out menu and excellent wines. Later, when Bazza judged the moment was right, there’d be entertainment.

Tonight, a little to Leo Kinder’s dismay, he was showcasing a tyro local comedian Andy Makins had found at the university.
He was a young sociology lecturer, Pompey born and bred, who did a brand of stand-up that he’d cleverly adapted for this evening’s audience. Bazza had thrown him some tasty morsels about the local politicians he’d be fighting in the coming election. He’d also made it possible for the guy to meet these people in person. The resulting routine he’d rehearsed in Bazza’s office only this afternoon, a witty mix of impersonation, risqué gossip and other local scuttlebutt. Bazza had loved it. And so, in his judgement, would the audience. It represented
Pompey First
’s coming of age. This lot were clued in. They knew where the bodies were buried. They were
sophisticated
.

A table by the window was currently occupied almost exclusively by lawyers. Bazza slipped into the spare chair. The port was circulating, but Bazza declined. He’d kept a clear head all evening, drinking nothing but San Pellegrino, but now he poured himself a modest glass of wine. He wanted to know what the guys round the table made of the latest rumblings from Fratton Park. The club, it was said, was bust. The busy Christmas fixture list was nearly upon them. More stumbles would push them deeper into relegation trouble. Manager Avram Grant was doing his best, but the money still wasn’t there. So where next for Pompey?

Howard Crewdson, as everyone knew, couldn’t stand football. Bazza didn’t know whether his downturned thumb meant curtains for the club or argued for a change of conversational subject.

A mate of Crewdson’s, a younger defence brief with a real flair for scoring impossible results in court, wasn’t having it.

‘It’ll come good,’ he said. ‘In time.’

‘Yeah, but how? Who’s in the driving seat? Who’s making the decisions? Uncle Avram’s going to walk in the end. He won’t have any other option.’

‘What about Wembley?’ This from Michelle Brinton, the only woman at the table. ‘Another cup final? Don’t we have form here?’

‘You have to be joking. You need a decent squad to get to Wembley. A couple more injuries, and Uncle Avram’s gonna start raiding the Sunday pub sides.’

A ripple of laughter ran round the table. Then Crewdson topped himself up with more port and lifted his glass in a toast.

‘Here’s to your Russian, Baz. What the fuck ever happened to him?’

Mackenzie fingered his glass. Mercifully, the report in the
News
back in the autumn had made little impact. In the general madness at Fratton Park what was a rumour about one more Russian oligarch?

‘Bit of a disappointment, mate. He seemed keen enough at the time, but you know how these things play out …’ Bazza shrugged, keen to change the subject.

‘You talked to him?’ Crewdson never gave up easily.

‘Of course I fucking talked to him.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he’d love to help. Best league in the world? Football to die for? Fortress Fratton? Global TV audiences? What’s not to like?’

‘But nothing happened.’

‘You’re right, son. Nothing did. You try, though, don’t you? And there ain’t no law against trying, is there? Not that I can remember …’

Bazza knew at once the mood had darkened around the table. These guys were lawyers. They were watching him carefully. Crewdson, with his silky courtroom skills, had touched a nerve, and they all knew it. This was a glimpse of the old Bazza, the guy who’d take the bait at the merest hint of an insult. Down to Crewdson, therefore, to reel him in.

‘So he’s still on the radar, your guy?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Chequebook ready?’

‘Without a doubt.’

‘So when do we expect him?’

Bazza wouldn’t answer, not for a moment or two. But he was back in control now, knowing exactly how to throw the hook.

‘To be honest, guys, I’m not the bloke you should be talking to. Paul’s your man. He’s riding shotgun on this one. Me? I do the hearts-and-minds stuff. When it comes to the moolah, Paul sorts most of that out.’

There was a collective murmur around the table. Everyone knew Paul Winter.

‘So where is he?’ Michelle Brinton was looking round the blur of faces.

‘Haven’t a clue, love. He phoned earlier, said he’d been delayed.’ Mackenzie reached for his glass at last and raised it in a toast. ‘So here’s to Uncle Avram, eh?’

Paul Winter was helping himself to another Stella. He’d never been a fan of safe houses. Last time he’d played a role like this the Special Ops guys had found a crappy ground-floor flat in the backstreets of Bournemouth. The thermostat on the central heating had stuck on forty degrees, the place stank of cat’s piss, and there was never anything in the fridge. This, though, was much much better. Jimmy Suttle had done him proud.

They were out in the country, deep in the flatlands above the Meon Valley. Soberton Heath was a scruffy collection of bungalows, red-brick cottages and infill newbuilds that had recently become the address of choice for Portsmouth and Southampton commuters who couldn’t afford prettier villages like Wickham or Droxford. One of the newbuilds belonged to a D/I who’d recently retired from Major Crime. He’d spent his last year of service working a wide variety of contacts and was now in Uganda, advising the local cops on interview protocols. Winter had known him well, as had Suttle, and they’d enjoyed the latest postcard from Entebbe. ‘Everything’s fine,’ the ex-D/I had written to Suttle, ‘except these guys can’t get their heads around the word “interview”. They prefer “interrogation” – and you know what? They might have a point …’

Winter cracked the can and emptied it into a pint glass. Suttle was drinking tea. Thanks to carburettor trouble on the way back from Southampton, Winter hadn’t turned up until nearly ten. Now it was almost half past. Lizzie had a mountain of presents to wrap. Already Suttle was dreading the inevitable scene.

‘Willard’s after a sitrep first thing tomorrow,’ he told Winter. ‘He’s getting nervous again.’

‘Why?’

‘The Chief came back from an ACPO meet with a flea in his ear. It seems the Home Office have wised up about our friend. The piece in the
Spectator
didn’t help.’

Winter smiled. Leo Kinder’s latest media coup had arrived in the shape of an urbane young freelance who had a line into some of the higher-profile news magazines. He’d come down to Pompey for the day, and Mackenzie had done him proud. Over lunch at the Royal Trafalgar he’d bent the journo’s ear, tabling the tastier bits of what was likely to become the
Pompey First
manifesto. The journo, who’d had the good sense to do his research well in advance, was more interested in his interviewee’s background, and Bazza had fed him enough detail to confirm what the guy already suspected.

In this strategy Kinder was a willing accomplice. The whole country loved a decent villain, he reasoned. Most politicians these days had no hinterland, no backstory. They were, at best, prisoners of their own limp ambitions, grey apparatchiks with office complexions and a mania for statistics. Baz, on the other hand, had done stuff, interesting stuff, stuff that had earned him a few bob. So why – without spelling out the details – waste all that?

Kinder had tagged this the Bobby Sands strategy, in memory of a convicted IRA gunman way back who’d got himself elected to Parliament while banged up in the Maze prison, and the gambit, as ever, had worked. The journo had originally been pitching for the
New Statesman
, but on the train to London,
reviewing his notes, he realised that provocative copy like this belonged in a right-wing mag, partly because the hot favourite in Portsmouth North was the Conservative candidate and partly because Bazza’s life story chimed very nicely with what Kinder called the ‘Tory narrative’. Bazza Mackenzie had done very well for himself without taking a penny from the state, and in the shape of
Pompey First
you were looking at the perfect template for the thrust of the coming Central Office campaign. If it was true that no one in the country had the first clue what David Cameron meant by the Big Society, then maybe they ought to start listening to the likes of Bazza Mackenzie.

The article had appeared in the
Spectator
at the end of last week. And every broadsheet paper in the country had quoted it over the weekend.

‘So what did the Chief say?’ Winter helped himself to more peanuts.

‘I’ve no idea. But Willard’s spitting bullets.’

‘You’ve talked to him?’

‘I talked to Parsons. Most days it’s the same thing. If Mackenzie takes this thing to the wire, people like the Chief are going to be ducking some hard fucking questions.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like how come we’ve never laid a finger on this guy? Like how come Pompey’s narco-king ends up in
Parliament
?’

‘But he’ll never make it, son. He’ll never get anywhere near it.’

‘That’s not the point. The point is that he
might
. And that’s enough, believe me. At their level, people like the Chief deal in possibilities. That’s the language they speak. The trick is to identify the threat and neutralise it.’

‘Meaning Mackenzie.’

‘Of course. And that means you.’

‘Us, Jimmy. Us.’

Suttle shrugged and checked his watch again. 10.43. Nightmare.

‘So tell me the latest …’ He pulled his pad towards him and produced a pen. ‘You know the deal. I need hard-core facts, the truth plus provable lies. Once I’ve typed this stuff up, you’ve got to attest it, sign it, the lot.’