'Given up.'
'You're serious?'
'Yeah, just for now. I'm nosey, if you want the truth. I've spent so much time pissed, all this is a bit of a novelty.' He waved a hand around, a gesture that seemed to have no geographical limit, then he settled back behind the desk, a man with important news to impart. 'You know something about this city, something really weird? It's about the way you look at it. As a nipper, you just do your thing, head down, get on with it. A little bit older, you follow your dick. A bit older still, you maybe get married, all that stuff. But you know your place, right? Because everything's bigger than you are. Then, if you're lucky, you wake up one morning and there it is, there for the taking.'
'What?'
'The city. Pompey. And you know why? Because this place is tiny. Get to know maybe a coupla dozen guys, the right coupla dozen, and there's nothing you can't do. Nothing. We're not talking bent, we're just talking deals, one bloke to another. And you know something else? It's easy. Easier than you can ever believe. Suss how it's done, make the right friends, and you start wondering why every other bastard isn't doing it too.'
'So what does that make you?'
'Lucky.' He reached for a paper clip and began to unbend it as he elaborated on this new world of limitless opportunities. How one deal led to another. How business could breed some genuine friendships. How wrong he'd been about some of the middle-class blokes he'd always had down as wankers. Fact was, a lot of them were hard bastards, knew how to live with risk, knew how to party. Collars and ties, in the end, were nothing but camouflage.
'Know what I mean?'
Winter nodded, his eyes returning to the cork board. Then he took a long swallow of Glenfiddich, the drift of this sudden outburst of Mackenzie's slowly slipping into focus. The city, he was saying, had become his plaything, the train set of his dreams. He could alter the layout, mess with the signalling, change the points, play God.
A smile warmed Winter's face. Bazza Mackenzie, he thought. The Bent Controller.
Mackenzie was on his feet again, restless. He'd found another photo, framed this time: a young bride on her wedding day, beaming out at the world.
'You hear about my Esme? Pregnant. As of last week. That makes me a grandfather. Sweet, eh?'
'Must be. I wouldn't know.'
'Shit, I forgot.' He paused, looking down at Winter, then patted him on the shoulder the way you might comfort a sick dog. 'Sorry about your missus, mate. A while back, wasn't it?'
'Two years ago next September.' Winter gazed at his glass for a moment, wondering how Bazza had got to know about Joannie. Then his head came up again. 'You must be proud of her.'
'Who?'
'Esme. Not just the baby, everything else.'
'Yeah, definitely. The girl's done well. Most of that's down to Marie if you want the truth, but that doesn't stop me being silly about her, does it? She called up tonight, matter of fact. She'll be through with uni this year and she's looking for chambers to take her on. Turns out some shit-hot briefs in town have offered her a pupil lage if her degree turns out OK. Couldn't wait to tell us.'
'And the baby?'
'Fuck knows. I'm putting it down for Winchester the moment it appears.'
'The nick?'
'The school.' Mackenzie barked with laughter. 'Marie's idea. Put a bit of class back in the family. Women these days, do it all, don't they?'
Winter was thinking about Misty Gallagher. Her role in Mackenzie's life was common knowledge amongst a certain slice of Portsmouth life.
So where did she figure on the cork board?
Mackenzie dismissed the question with a shrug.
'Silly girl, Mist. Can't take a joke. Shame, really.' He looked morose for a moment, then visibly brightened. 'Don't want a nice harbour side apartment, do you? Yours for seven hundred grand.'
'You've put it on the market?' Winter feigned amazement.
'Yeah. Wait a week, and you'll be looking at seven fifty. View like that, they'll be queuing for it.'
'And Trudy?'
Trude'll be OK. She's a survivor, that girl. Has to be, living with Mist.'
'I thought she was tucked up with Mike Valentine?'
'No way. Mike's got a bob or two, saw her right, but he's old, isn't he? Trude's a kid. Doesn't want some wrinkly like Mike.'
'Or us.'
'Yeah.'
'Or Dave Pullen.'
Mackenzie didn't answer. The temperature in the room seemed to plunge.
After all the joshing, all the catching-up, Winter had bent to Mackenzie's train set and thrown the points.
Mackenzie was staring at Winter. In certain moods, he had the blackest eyes.
'Is that what this is about, then? Mr. Dave fucking Pullen?'
'Partly, yes.'
'Well don't worry about that arse-wipe. He's taken care of.'
'Since when?' Winter was genuinely surprised.
'Since' Mackenzie glanced at his Rolex 'about an hour ago. What else do you want to know?'
Winter was eyeing the bottle. Glenfiddich wasn't quite his favourite malt but under circumstances like these it would certainly do. He splashed a generous measure into his glass and swirled it round. With people like Mackenzie, it sometimes paid to keep them waiting.
'My bosses have got this thing about law and disorder,' he said at last. 'Keeping it private, keeping it out of sight, is one thing. What Chris Talbot did at the railway station was something else.'
'Like what?
'Like stupid. And like unnecessary.'
'Says you.'
'Says my bosses. And they've got a point, too. If you can't run a business without pulling those kinds of strokes, then maybe you ought to let someone else have a go.'
Mackenzie hated criticism. With the sole exception of his wife, people never talked to him like this. He'd visibly stiffened behind the desk.
All the chumminess, all the little flurries of wit, had gone. Winter, aware that this conversation had to deliver some kind of truce, tried to coax a smile.
'Think of me as the poor fucker in no-man's-land,' he began. 'I'm waiving the book of rules. I'm here to tell you to cool it. Call off the dogs, ignore the Scousers, and it'll be business as usual.'
'Rules bollocks.' Mackenzie was angry now. 'If your bosses are so fucking keen on business as usual, then how come they're trying to put me away? Talking to the bank? To my accountant? Sticking blokes across the road in clapped-out Fiestas?' He paused for long enough to let Winter raise an eyebrow. 'You think I don't know about all that shit? Operation Tumbril? Three men and a dog banged up on Whale Island? You go back and tell them they haven't got a prayer. Not a fucking prayer. And you know why? Because I can afford the kind of advice they'd only ever dream about. And you know something else?' He jabbed a finger at the photos on the cork board. 'That advice is kosher, legit, paid-for. Problem with you blokes is you're either skint or looking the wrong way when the big deals go down.' He was on the edge of his chair now, leaning forward across the desk. 'A little word in your ear, my friend. Watch the press.'
'The local press?'
'Absolutely. Give it a couple of days and we might be able to put this conversation in perspective. Big announcement. Major acquisition.
Hundreds of grand.' He nodded, belligerent, proud of himself. 'You know what really pisses me off about you lot? A bloke comes along and works his arse off for this city, pours in millions, one-man fucking regeneration agency
