He’d known for months that hoisting Winter on board for Grace’s christening hadn’t been a great career move, but Lizzie had been keen, and in the end Suttle hoped no one would notice. Wrong.
‘Do you feel compromised?’ Willard had put the bottle to one side.
‘No, sir.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because I know where the line is.’
‘What line?’
‘Between the job and everything else in my life.’
‘And you think that’s the same for Winter?’
‘Yes, sir. I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because when the chips are down, like now, he treats me as a friend. And that, sir, might be an opportunity for us.’
Willard eyeballed Suttle a moment longer then granted him a tiny nod of approval. Nice answer. Clever. Neat. Almost plausible.
‘Winter’s a rat,’ Willard said softly. ‘We shouldn’t be dealing with rats.’
‘But Mackenzie’s the same, sir. Only nastier.’
‘And you think that justifies cosying up to Winter?’
‘That’s your word, sir. All we’ve done is have a conversation.’
‘And you trust him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But you think we should have him on board?’
‘I think we should be putting Mackenzie away.’
‘And you think Winter can do that?’
‘I think he can make it possible, yes.’
Parsons was ferrying dishes in from the kitchen. With the pasta went a big dish of chilli con carne. While Suttle explained Winter’s plan to bait the campaign-funding trap with the drug debt owed by Martin Skelley, Willard wrestled the cork from the bottle.
‘That means we’ll be talking months,’ he said. ‘Next spring, probably.’
‘That’s right, sir. But that’s generally the way with u/c.’
Willard nodded. An effective undercover operation often took upwards of a year to prepare. In this case Winter would, if anything, be shortening the time frame, chiefly because he was already at the heart of Mackenzie’s life. No need to insert someone new, give them a legend, let them groom the major parties, lulling them into a false sense of security before the trap was finally sprung. In Suttle’s view Winter’s offer was a major windfall, a great fat plum that had just dropped into their laps.
Parsons agreed. ‘Jimmy’s right, Geoff. There’s no one else I can think of that Winter would trust. Maybe we owe him a vote of thanks.’
Willard ignored the invitation. He helped himself to a plate of food then looked up at Suttle.
‘The man’s a nightmare.’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Winter. Assuming we do something, assuming we think it might play to our advantage, we’ll need to manage the bastard, tie him hand and foot, make him understand he’s not a free agent any more. These things are tricky. We could get burned. Badly.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘So who’d do it? Who’d take the responsibility? Who’d rein him in?’
There was a long silence, broken, in the end, by Parsons. She smiled across the table, loops of pasta hanging from her fork.
‘That would have to be you, Jimmy, wouldn’t it?’
Winter spent the day at Misty’s place out at Hayling Island. He brought her two bottles of Chablis, a bunch of pink roses and news he assumed would put a big smile on her face.
‘Bazza’s not interested in selling up, Mist. Fuck knows why, but he seems to think you need this lot.’
They were sitting beside the pool. The sun was hot after a couple of early showers, and Misty was lying topless on her B&Q recliner. A couple of savage Bacardi and Cokes had settled her down after a late lunch, and droplets of sweat were beading in the coat of factor 20 that masked her face.
She reached out for his hand. Earlier she’d suggested he join her in the pool, but there was no way Winter could squeeze into Bazza’s cast-off Hawaiian surf shorts. Now, nursing a Stella, he sat beside the patio table in the shadow of a big striped umbrella. He’d shed his jacket and from time to time he mopped his face with a corner of Misty’s towel.
‘I’ve been thinking …’
‘Do you feel compromised?’ Willard had put the bottle to one side.
‘No, sir.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because I know where the line is.’
‘What line?’
‘Between the job and everything else in my life.’
‘And you think that’s the same for Winter?’
‘Yes, sir. I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because when the chips are down, like now, he treats me as a friend. And that, sir, might be an opportunity for us.’
Willard eyeballed Suttle a moment longer then granted him a tiny nod of approval. Nice answer. Clever. Neat. Almost plausible.
‘Winter’s a rat,’ Willard said softly. ‘We shouldn’t be dealing with rats.’
‘But Mackenzie’s the same, sir. Only nastier.’
‘And you think that justifies cosying up to Winter?’
‘That’s your word, sir. All we’ve done is have a conversation.’
‘And you trust him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But you think we should have him on board?’
‘I think we should be putting Mackenzie away.’
‘And you think Winter can do that?’
‘I think he can make it possible, yes.’
Parsons was ferrying dishes in from the kitchen. With the pasta went a big dish of chilli con carne. While Suttle explained Winter’s plan to bait the campaign-funding trap with the drug debt owed by Martin Skelley, Willard wrestled the cork from the bottle.
‘That means we’ll be talking months,’ he said. ‘Next spring, probably.’
‘That’s right, sir. But that’s generally the way with u/c.’
Willard nodded. An effective undercover operation often took upwards of a year to prepare. In this case Winter would, if anything, be shortening the time frame, chiefly because he was already at the heart of Mackenzie’s life. No need to insert someone new, give them a legend, let them groom the major parties, lulling them into a false sense of security before the trap was finally sprung. In Suttle’s view Winter’s offer was a major windfall, a great fat plum that had just dropped into their laps.
Parsons agreed. ‘Jimmy’s right, Geoff. There’s no one else I can think of that Winter would trust. Maybe we owe him a vote of thanks.’
Willard ignored the invitation. He helped himself to a plate of food then looked up at Suttle.
‘The man’s a nightmare.’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Winter. Assuming we do something, assuming we think it might play to our advantage, we’ll need to manage the bastard, tie him hand and foot, make him understand he’s not a free agent any more. These things are tricky. We could get burned. Badly.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘So who’d do it? Who’d take the responsibility? Who’d rein him in?’
There was a long silence, broken, in the end, by Parsons. She smiled across the table, loops of pasta hanging from her fork.
‘That would have to be you, Jimmy, wouldn’t it?’
Winter spent the day at Misty’s place out at Hayling Island. He brought her two bottles of Chablis, a bunch of pink roses and news he assumed would put a big smile on her face.
‘Bazza’s not interested in selling up, Mist. Fuck knows why, but he seems to think you need this lot.’
They were sitting beside the pool. The sun was hot after a couple of early showers, and Misty was lying topless on her B&Q recliner. A couple of savage Bacardi and Cokes had settled her down after a late lunch, and droplets of sweat were beading in the coat of factor 20 that masked her face.
She reached out for his hand. Earlier she’d suggested he join her in the pool, but there was no way Winter could squeeze into Bazza’s cast-off Hawaiian surf shorts. Now, nursing a Stella, he sat beside the patio table in the shadow of a big striped umbrella. He’d shed his jacket and from time to time he mopped his face with a corner of Misty’s towel.
‘I’ve been thinking …’
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