The Price Of Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page A

photos taken afterwards had found their way onto the noticeboard in the upstairs bar at the Kingston Crescent nick.
    Give or take minor convictions for assault and affray, no detective had ever managed to lay a hand on Mackenzie, and by now - especially amongst the older hands - there was a rueful acceptance that he’d become too successful, too armour-clad, to take down. Criminals as wealthy as Bazza could afford to hire the very best advice from white-collar professionals who’d keep him at arm’s length from the law, and there in the Kingston Crescent bar was the living proof of the immunity he’d so cannily bought himself.
    Winter smiled at the memory. The line of beaming faces had included three solicitors, a couple of accountants, two members of the Pompey Premiership team, an architect who’d made a fortune in Dubai, a prominent local journalist, a handful of minor TV celebs, as well as an assortment of builders, publicans and shaven-headed men of leisure who couldn’t wait to get stuck into Bazza’s limitless supply of Krug. Coupled with the reception at the Royal Trafalgar, Bazza’s own seafront hotel, the day had been a kind of coronation. After twenty busy years, he’d become the undisputed king of the city.
    An hour into the journey, Winter felt a tap on his knee. It was Esme. Stuart had asked him a question.
    ‘What about?’ Winter struggled upright, rubbing his face. He wasn’t certain but he thought he sensed a headache coming on.
    ‘Bazza. Tonight. Back at the airport. He just seemed different, that’s all.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Yes. Definitely. My wife here tells me he’s taken it pretty badly.’
    ‘About Mark, you mean?’
    Winter’s eyes found the rear-view mirror. Stuart was watching him carefully.
    ‘Of course. It’s not every day you lose someone you grew up with. Not at that age.’
    ‘Sure, Stu, but you’ve got to be realistic. The two of them were virtual strangers, totally different personalities, chalk and cheese. OK, they shared the same surname, but Mark found it hard sometimes, having to play the elder brother.’
    ‘Really?’ Stuart sounded surprised.
    ‘Yeah. Mark and Bazza were always falling out. Back in the early days they shared a dossy old flat in Southsea, just off Goldsmith Avenue, up near the football ground. In fact there were four of them in there - Mark, two of his mates, and Bazza. Mark was on the building sites, earning good money, and his mates were in the same game. Baz had binned school and was flogging crap houses for some toerag estate agent at that point, brilliant at it he was. In fact that’s how he met Marie. Her dad was an architect, had some connection to the business.’
    ‘Is that right?’ Esme had turned in her seat. She sounded slightly shocked.
    ‘Yeah. Baz never fancied the tools. Getting pissed on in the rain was never his idea of a good day out. Job for inbreds, he used to say. That was the thing about Baz though, even then. Number one, he was absolutely sure he was always in the right. Number two, he never kept his opinions to himself. It used to drive Mark mad. “Titch” he used to call him.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Bazza. Your dad. The short-arse. He ignored it, of course, like he ignores more or less everything else in life unless it turns a profit. That’s why he’s been so successful. But that’s the secret, isn’t it? It was the same in my game. The bloke who kept his eye on the ball was the bloke who got on the scoresheet. Regardless of what everyone else might be saying.’
    Stuart’s soft laughter brought the conversation to a halt for a moment. He glanced across at Esme, then up at the mirror again.
    ‘So how come you know all this? About the flat and everything?’
    ‘Because we busted them. Bazza was ambitious, even then. Plus he’d upset people. In that kind of situation it’s easy to squeeze people for a cough or two. One Sunday morning I had three blokes in the holding cells on possession charges, three of them, and