Read Online The Price Of Darkness by Graham Hurley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Graham Hurley
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returning minutes later to find Faraday gazing out of the window. A pair of distant rooks over the motorway were mobbing a bird she could barely see.
‘It’s a kestrel.’ Faraday turned round. ‘Punchy, wasn’t he?’
Four
WEDNESDAY, 6 SEPTEMBER 2006. 12.23
Winter went back to Portsmouth on the train. Mackenzie had offered him a lift but a couple of hours of headbanging after Deano got on his bike and roared off had left Winter with a yearning for a bit of peace and quiet. In these moods Bazza was out of control.
Winter, to his alarm, had been saddled with the task of making the Mackenzie Trophy come true. At first, listening to his new boss back at the station, he’d wrongly assumed that this wild idea was nothing more than a particularly violent blast of wind in the hurricane that was Bazza’s life. He’d probably been thinking about Mark. Someone had mentioned Pompey’s appetite for staging big events. Someone else had been talking about jet skis. And suddenly, hey presto, there it was: the Mackenzie Trophy. Immortality for Mark, poor bastard, lots of profile for Bazza and a big leg-up for the family name.
In the way of things, Winter would have expected nothing less. Mackenzie had a brain like a firework display, forever sending up volley after volley of fizzing little schemes, and people who knew him well simply closed their eyes, put their hands over their ears, and waited for the rocket sticks to fall to earth. Once in a while, to be fair, he’d see to it that one of these wheezes actually came to something. The Royal Trafalgar Hotel, now the showpiece of the Mackenzie empire, had started life as a gleam in Bazza’s eye. As had a couple of café-bars, a chain of tanning salons, an estate agency, a taxi firm, a double-glazing outfit and even a North End pet shop that specialised in exotic reptiles. But the Mackenzie Trophy?
Winter shook his head, watching the blur of stations as London’s outer suburbs slowly thinned. Maybe it was down to Mark, he thought. Maybe Baz genuinely wanted to somehow commemorate his brother’s death. Or maybe it was something more complex, Bazza’s way of coping with all that grief. Dream up a monster stunt like this, push it hard, make it happen, and there’d be precious little time left for feeling sorry for himself.
Whatever the truth, Winter was well and truly kippered. With Deano gone, Bazza had got down to business. To Winter’s horror, he’d produced a checklist of steps he wanted actioned. This in itself was evidence that the Mackenzie Trophy was something more than a passing fantasy, and Winter’s heart sank as Bazza led him through the unfolding plan.
First off, he wanted the locals on board. Given ample support from the QHM, Winter was to sort out the RNLI, the SSA, the RYA and the PHE. Faced with this nonsense, Winter had briefly perked up. Bazza was taking the piss. He knew about the life Winter had just left. He knew that coppers battled daily against a blizzard of initials. This was his little joke, a touch on the elbow, a matey way of making him feel comfortable in his new role.
Far from it. The Royal National Lifeboat Institution, the Solent Skiers Association, the Royal Yachting Association and an outfit called Portsmouth Harbour Events all needed a call. One by one, Winter was to recruit them for the cause. That done, he was to talk to the city council. These people loved publicity, especially free publicity. A big stunt like this would bring thousands of punters flooding in, especially once Winter had explained about the media coverage.
Media coverage? He’d tried to bring Bazza back to earth. There and then, over his second hot chocolate, he’d tried to bring this madness to a halt. He knew bugger all about the media. He had no contacts in television and precious few anywhere else. Even in Pompey his knowledge of local journalism didn’t extend beyond a couple of pretty young News reporters whom he’d occasionally tapped up for
‘It’s a kestrel.’ Faraday turned round. ‘Punchy, wasn’t he?’
Four
WEDNESDAY, 6 SEPTEMBER 2006. 12.23
Winter went back to Portsmouth on the train. Mackenzie had offered him a lift but a couple of hours of headbanging after Deano got on his bike and roared off had left Winter with a yearning for a bit of peace and quiet. In these moods Bazza was out of control.
Winter, to his alarm, had been saddled with the task of making the Mackenzie Trophy come true. At first, listening to his new boss back at the station, he’d wrongly assumed that this wild idea was nothing more than a particularly violent blast of wind in the hurricane that was Bazza’s life. He’d probably been thinking about Mark. Someone had mentioned Pompey’s appetite for staging big events. Someone else had been talking about jet skis. And suddenly, hey presto, there it was: the Mackenzie Trophy. Immortality for Mark, poor bastard, lots of profile for Bazza and a big leg-up for the family name.
In the way of things, Winter would have expected nothing less. Mackenzie had a brain like a firework display, forever sending up volley after volley of fizzing little schemes, and people who knew him well simply closed their eyes, put their hands over their ears, and waited for the rocket sticks to fall to earth. Once in a while, to be fair, he’d see to it that one of these wheezes actually came to something. The Royal Trafalgar Hotel, now the showpiece of the Mackenzie empire, had started life as a gleam in Bazza’s eye. As had a couple of café-bars, a chain of tanning salons, an estate agency, a taxi firm, a double-glazing outfit and even a North End pet shop that specialised in exotic reptiles. But the Mackenzie Trophy?
Winter shook his head, watching the blur of stations as London’s outer suburbs slowly thinned. Maybe it was down to Mark, he thought. Maybe Baz genuinely wanted to somehow commemorate his brother’s death. Or maybe it was something more complex, Bazza’s way of coping with all that grief. Dream up a monster stunt like this, push it hard, make it happen, and there’d be precious little time left for feeling sorry for himself.
Whatever the truth, Winter was well and truly kippered. With Deano gone, Bazza had got down to business. To Winter’s horror, he’d produced a checklist of steps he wanted actioned. This in itself was evidence that the Mackenzie Trophy was something more than a passing fantasy, and Winter’s heart sank as Bazza led him through the unfolding plan.
First off, he wanted the locals on board. Given ample support from the QHM, Winter was to sort out the RNLI, the SSA, the RYA and the PHE. Faced with this nonsense, Winter had briefly perked up. Bazza was taking the piss. He knew about the life Winter had just left. He knew that coppers battled daily against a blizzard of initials. This was his little joke, a touch on the elbow, a matey way of making him feel comfortable in his new role.
Far from it. The Royal National Lifeboat Institution, the Solent Skiers Association, the Royal Yachting Association and an outfit called Portsmouth Harbour Events all needed a call. One by one, Winter was to recruit them for the cause. That done, he was to talk to the city council. These people loved publicity, especially free publicity. A big stunt like this would bring thousands of punters flooding in, especially once Winter had explained about the media coverage.
Media coverage? He’d tried to bring Bazza back to earth. There and then, over his second hot chocolate, he’d tried to bring this madness to a halt. He knew bugger all about the media. He had no contacts in television and precious few anywhere else. Even in Pompey his knowledge of local journalism didn’t extend beyond a couple of pretty young News reporters whom he’d occasionally tapped up for
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