Authors: Graham Hurley
‘We think she might know where he is.’
‘Fuck.’ Winter was impressed.
‘Exactly.’
‘So what’s she saying?’
‘Nothing. Not to us, anyway.’
Winter stared at Suttle, trying to juggle the implications.
‘So I’m a cop now. Is that it?’
Even Willard laughed. Winter hadn’t finished. He’d been aware of Beginski for some time, ever since Suttle slipped him the intel file on Martin Skelley. But the fact that he had a sister was something new.
‘So how come you lot know about this Irenka?’
‘We ran various checks.’ Suttle said. ‘Cross-matched Beginski to other databases.’
‘Like?’
‘HMRC. DWP.’ Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. Department of Work and Pensions.
‘And you’re telling me they’ve got the same surname? Brother and sister?’
‘Yeah. It seems she’s never married.’
‘Lucky, eh?’
‘For her?’
‘For you lot. Bit of a break, I’d say.’
Suttle nodded and shot an amused glance at Parsons. Winter had never been an easy sell, and nothing had changed.
Winter wanted to know where to find the woman.
Suttle passed across an address in Isleworth. ‘I think it’s pretty basic,’ he said. ‘Maybe just a couple of rented rooms.’
‘You haven’t checked it out?’
‘No. We thought you might do that. The lead only came in a couple of days ago.’
Winter was still looking at the address. His plan for the afternoon wrote itself. Find Irenka. Get some kind of lead on Beginski’s whereabouts. And sort whether he might be up for a conversation. If he’d burned through his pay-off and could do Skelley real damage, then he might want more. And if that was the case then Winter would be only too happy to act as his agent.
Winter sat back, took his time. Everyone round the table was waiting.
‘This is kosher, right?’ Winter was looking at Willard.
‘What’s kosher?’
‘The woman. Irenka.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.’
Willard smiled, then glanced at Suttle.
‘She’s kosher, sir.’ Suttle nodded. ‘One hundred per cent.’
Willard nodded and reached for his briefcase. He was looking at Winter again. He didn’t bother to hide his amusement.
‘Happy now?’ he said.
It was early afternoon by the time Mackenzie finished his first round of phone calls. One by one he’d drawn a line through the long list of names on his pad. These were people who only hours ago he’d have relied on for a grand or two or maybe even more, but most of them had already kicked in modest sums for a couple of
Pompey First
fund-raisers during the spring, and given the current squeeze none of them were up for more. As he got towards the bottom of the list, his pen strokes became angrier, and by the time Kinder and Makins joined him for a pre-launch meet in his office at the Royal Trafalgar, his mood was grim.
Kinder told him they were looking at 90 per cent acceptance for the five o’clock launch. They were using the big function room downstairs. Staff were already bannering the stage Mackenzie would be using, and Kinder had just taken receipt of the specially commissioned colour blow-ups from the framers. These shots featured Bazza in a number of Pompey settings from the Fratton End at the Chelsea game to the top of the Round Tower overlooking the harbour mouth. In every case Baz was locked in conversation with a bunch of punters. These were Pompey faces, Bazza’s people, the men and women he’d be only too happy to serve, and on most of the shots
the strap line was the same:
Pompey First … because we all deserve better
.
Kinder had brought what he judged to be the best of the photos with him and now he propped it against the door. BazzaMac, as some of the bloggers were beginning to call him, was standing in the empty bowl of Hilsea Lido, a 1930s open-air swimming pool at the top of the city. This had always been a must-visit attraction on hot summer days, especially popular with young families, and for thousands of older voters it represented a Pompey that was close to disappearing. In recent years the council had abandoned plans for a major refurb, and only a vigorous local campaign had saved the place from demolition.
Mackenzie leaned forward over his desk, staring at the shot. Kinder’s photographer had got him to spread his arms wide and asked for a gesture of despair. Mackenzie, who had no time for despair, had found the photo shoot a pain in the arse, but now he saw what the photographer had been getting at. Across the bottom of the shot ran a different strapline:
Pompey First … before it’s too late
.
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Fucking great.’
His mood began to lift. Kinder ran quickly through the plan for the late-afternoon media launch. When he got to the drinks, Mackenzie told him to cancel the champagne. Kinder raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Too flash,’ Mackenzie grunted. ‘Make it tea and coffee. This is the austerity election. We don’t need Moët.’
He reached for the speech Kinder had prepared him. Kinder pointed out an extra paragraph he’d added after monitoring the lunchtime news round-ups.
Pompey First
, he wanted Bazza to announce, was the Big Society in action. Not some puppet show controlled by the faceless honchos up in London but the real thing. Local votes, local voices, plus a big fat local vibe. Your Pompey, not theirs.
No problem. Mackenzie put the speech to one side. He wanted an update on the Future-Proofing Conference. This
had been on standby for nearly a month. Kinder had lined up a panel of speakers from across Europe to descend on the city for a two-day brainstorm: an Italian architect who specialised in the use of public space, an academic from Frankfurt who knew all about tram systems, a Swedish engineer with some radical thoughts on green energy, plus a handful of English experts with international reputations in the field of urban planning. The conference, said Kinder, would attract national media attention and add a coat or two of gloss to the
Pompey First
campaign. These guys on the south coast, went the implicit message, aren’t the country bumpkins you might think they are. They care about their city’s future. And they’re doing something about it.
‘I need costings, Leo.’
‘You’ve got them. We’ve budgeted twenty grand with a 2K buffer.’
‘Which takes care of what?’
‘Transport, fees, accommodation, hire of the venue, entertainment, plus various sundries.’
‘Halve it. We can hold the conference here. Fly them economy. And forget the accommodation costs.’
‘How does that work?’
‘I’ll shift it to another budget, pretend they’re just regular guests.’
‘We can’t do that, Baz. You know we can’t.’
‘I can do whatever I fucking like, Leo. OK?’
Kinder locked eyes for a moment, then shrugged. After the election was over he would have to submit full accounts to the Electoral Commission. Exceeding the allowance for expenses was a criminal offence. Already, given what they’d spent since the turn of the year, they were dangerously close to the limit. The New Year’s Eve firework display had cost seven thousand. An earlier conference on juvenile delinquency, a showcase for Tide Turn Trust, another eighteen. Given these constraints, he could hardly object to reductions in the budget, but hiding
expenditure away was madness. He’d dealt with the Electoral Commission before. They weren’t stupid.
Mackenzie wanted a schedule for the first week of campaigning. Kinder opened a file and studied it for a moment. They were kicking off tomorrow with a visit to the QA site. Two hundred and fifty-six million pounds had bought a new superhospital, the jewel in Pompey’s crown, but
Pompey First
was calling for better coordination between patients’ groups, hospitals and GPs.
‘You got a brief on that?’
‘It’s joined-up care, Baz. No point buying a Bentley and putting the wrong fuel in.’
‘What else?’ Mackenzie jotted himself a note.
‘Friday we’re hitting the Cosham Shopping Centre. Loads of balloons plus some local kids. They call themselves the Silver Majorettes. Business rates are going up from 2K to 10K. Footfall’s down 40 per cent. Most of the shopkeepers are suicidal, and there are lots of regulars who see it their way. Hundreds of votes, Baz.’
‘And the weekend?’ He made another note.
‘There’s a huge gig at the Student Union on Saturday night. We’ve bunged some money in.’
‘How much?’
‘Five hundred.’
‘Halve it.’
‘Too late, Baz.’
‘Get a rebate then. Any fucking thing.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Kinder was close to losing it. ‘We pledge five hundred? They spend the money? Then we want half
back
? How does that play in the
News
? Students are key, Baz. You know that.’
‘Students are dossers.’
‘Whatever. But we need them. Andy?’
Makins agreed. On the back of the video work, he’d persuaded a bunch of guys from the uni to organise a registration
drive. A lot of the students lived in the north of the city and the reg rate was beginning to pick up.
‘How many? Tops?’
‘Could be more than a thousand. Easily.’
Mackenzie nodded, knowing that he’d lost this one. He looked at his watch. Andy Makins hadn’t finished.
‘Just to say we’re starting the
Pompey Passion
slots. The first lot are going up on YouTube this afternoon. Sixty seconds each. Just thought you ought to know.’
The
Pompey Passion
videos had been Bazza’s idea. He had told Makins to find a whole load of punters who did odd things with their spare time. He knew the city was full of characters like these – anything from stuffing crows to meticulously constructed models of Nelson’s fleet for Trafalgar re-enactments on Southsea Boating Lake – and if each of the slots ended with a full-on
Pompey First
endorsement, he thought it might have some impact. Makins had agreed but had come up with his own twist.
‘We’re kicking off with the actors from
Smoutland
.’ He offered Mackenzie a rare grin. ‘Only this time they’re playing themselves.’
‘Doing what?’
‘That was the problem. In real life they’re all a bit boring so we had to invent stuff. The old guy on the allotment turns out to collect fire extinguishers. Young Shel’s got a thing about fur-trimmed knickers.’
‘Brilliant. Top stuff.’ Baz was grinning at last. ‘Go for it.’
He brought the meeting to a close and agreed to hook up later. The guy doing the PA for the media launch wanted a sound check at 16.45. Mackenzie said he’d be there.
Kinder and Makins left the office. Mackenzie crossed to the door, locked it, then returned to his desk. He’d already made a note of the number he needed. He looked at the phone for a moment then picked it up. This was the last call he’d ever wanted to make but he knew he had no choice.
The number rang and rang then a voice he recognised only too well came on the line.
‘It’s me …’ he muttered, ‘Bazza Mackenzie.’
ISLEWORTH: TUESDAY, 6 APRIL 2010
Winter was in Isleworth by mid-afternoon. Studland Close was a scruffy parade of shops off the Twickenham Road. The agency was perched on top of a second-hand white-goods store and had a flight of steps to an upstairs entrance at the back.
Irenka Beginski was having a late lunch. She answered Winter’s knock with a plate of salad in one hand and a TV remote in the other. She was a big woman – tall, with startling make-up and a slightly intimidating smile.
‘And you are?’ Flat London accent. Definitely home-grown.
‘My name’s Paul Winter.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You’re after somewhere to live?’
‘No.’
She gave him a long appraising look then stepped aside.
‘First room on the left,’ she said. ‘People normally phone first.’
The office was spartan but larger than Winter had expected: a desk, three chairs, two filing cabinets, a whiteboard listing current tenants, a TV balanced on a stack of phone directories, a chipped mirror, plus a huge badly framed poster. Winter paused to look at it. Crowds of what looked like tourists stood in a square gazing up at a clock tower. A frieze of picturesque buildings brightened the background.
‘You know Cracow at all?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t missed much. It used to be lovely.’ She eased herself behind the desk and began to pick at the salad. ‘How can I help you, young man?’
‘I understand you’ve got a brother.’ Winter was still on his feet.
‘I have. You’re right.’
‘Name?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘His name? Your brother?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not quite up to speed with this. Are you police? Immigration? VAT? None of the above? Only I’m a busy girl.’
‘I can see.’ Winter was looking at the empty desk.
Irenka put her plate down with some care. Then she reached for the phone. When the number answered, she said something rapid in what Winter assumed was Polish and rang off.
‘Friend of mine.’ There wasn’t a trace of warmth in the smile this time. ‘Big guy. Lives round the corner. You’ll like him.’
Winter took this as a warning. He sat down. To his relief Irenka turned the TV off. He’d never much liked
Copycats
.
‘I’ll start again,’ he said.
He explained he’d come up from Pompey. He worked for a businessman in the city. The businessman had issues with a guy called Martin Skelley and was keen to talk to an ex-employee of his who happened to be Polish.
‘His name’s Pavel Beginski,’ Winter said. ‘Am I getting warm?’
‘Go on.’
‘My boss wants to get in touch.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Skelley owes him money.’
‘Lots of money?’
‘Lots of money.’
‘And Beginski? Where does he come into all this?’
‘We think Pavel knows a thing or two about Skelley. And we think Skelley might pay a great deal of money for what Pavel knows.’
‘So why doesn’t this Pavel talk to Skelley direct?’
‘Good question. We think he might have done. And knowing Skelley the way we do, we think he’d have told Pavel to fuck off.’