He signalled for Faraday to stay behind in the office once the meeting had broken up.
‘He hates us, doesn’t he?’ He nodded at the empty conference table. ‘He can’t stand any of this.’
Daniel George was the moving force behind Respect in Portsmouth. Faraday got contact details from Duley’s address book then returned to his own office. The call found him in seconds. George evidently helped his wife in the family business, an all-hours café in Southsea’s Albert Road. On the phone he sounded guarded about Duley but said he’d followed the story in the News and agreed to meet at half seven. He had a bit of time free and Faraday was welcome to come to the café.
Faraday took DC Tracy Barber with him. The squad meeting had been shorter than usual and they’d had time to catch up over a snatched pint upstairs at the bar. At Faraday’s prompting, Barber had phoned a contact in the force Special Branch office about George. It turned out that his SB file went back years. There was no way Barber’s contact was going through the whole thing but he’d given her the essentials.
Sixty-three years old. Early career as a researcher at LSE, then a series of lecturer posts in various universities. Active on the far left - International Socialists and Socialist Workers Party - since 1968. Fought the rightward drift of New Labour and lent his weight to the stop-the-war campaign in Portsmouth.
‘The guy sounds solid,’ Barber had told Faraday. ‘SB thinks we’re talking root and branch socialism.’
One Minute To Midnight was a cheerfully bright café lodged between a second-hand book store and a sprawling antiques shop in Albert Road. According to Barber’s Special Branch contact, the place was extremely popular with students and one look at the price list in the window told Faraday why. Corned beef hash with spring cabbage in fish sauce and garlic, £2.95. Moroccan-style fishcakes with couscous and a home-made chilli sauce, £3.65. At those kinds of prices, Faraday told Barber, he might start eating here himself.
Inside, there was barely room to edge between the tightly packed tables. The air was blue with smoke and there was a powerful smell of cannabis. At the counter at the back of the café, Faraday’s enquiry about Daniel George was greeted with a nod by the woman chopping onions beneath a line of posters advertising various upcoming music gigs. It seemed they were expected.
‘He’s up in his office.’ She nodded at a flight of nearby stairs. ‘Look for the light under the door.’
The stairs were in semi-darkness. Up on the top landing, Faraday found the office door and knocked. An answering grunt invited them in. George was sitting at a desk working through a list of figures. The window was curtained and a pool of light from the lamp at his elbow spilled across a litter of invoices. On the wall above the desk was a poster for a Rembrandt exhibition at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, a brooding self-portrait that seemed to echo the weariness in George’s face. In daylight, thought Faraday, this room would look a mess. There were books and magazines everywhere, piled on the threadbare carpet, and hundreds of photocopied flyers spilled out of a couple of cardboard boxes behind the door. In some respects it reminded Faraday of the busy chaos of Duley’s bedsit. The same dismissal of orderliness. The same faith in the printed word.
George pushed his chair back from the desk and turned to greet them. He was a tall man, stooped, his eyes pouched with exhaustion behind the thick glasses. He was dressed for the allotment, old shirt, torn cardigan, but there was an additional echo of Martin Barrie in the steadiness of his gaze. This was someone you’d be foolish to underestimate.
‘We’ll have to get a move on, I’m afraid.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I take it this is about Mr Duley.’
‘That’s right.’ Faraday pocketed his warrant card. ‘As I explained on the phone, we—’
George stepped past him, clumped down the landing and returned moments later with two chairs. Faraday and Barber sat down. George towered over them
‘Normally, I wouldn’t dream of talking to you,’ he said bluntly. ‘But under the circumstances I imagine it might help.’ He sank into his own chair. ‘What exactly are you after?’
‘Information on Duley.’ It was Faraday again. ‘We simply need to establish some facts. Is that OK with you?’
‘We’ll see. Try me.’
‘Next of kin would be helpful. Was Duley married?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Parents?’
‘He never mentioned them.’
‘Someone special then? Partner? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? ’
‘No.’ George shook his head. ‘I can’t help you with any of that either.’
Faraday nodded. Was this intransigence or was he telling them the truth? Barber took up the running.
‘How well did you know Mr Duley?’
George glanced from one face to the other, then produced a packet of Rizlas and began to roll himself a cigarette. Something was troubling him here, Faraday could feel it.
‘Listen,’ George said at last. ‘I’ve no idea what happened to Mark and naturally we’re all a bit upset, but what is it you’re really after? You want to know what kind of bloke he is? Who he’d pissed off? What might have taken him into that tunnel? Is that it?’
‘Partly, yes.’
‘Then you’re talking to the wrong man. I’m not being difficult, I’m really not, but it’s not my job to make life easier for you people.’
Barber exchanged glances with Faraday and then sat back in the chair. Faraday did his best to hide his irritation.
‘We’re dealing with a serious crime, Mr George,’ he said softly. ‘In all probability, Mr Duley was murdered. Not just killed but killed horribly. You knew him. You must have thought about him since the news broke. You can’t tell me you haven’t.’
‘Of course not. But where does that take us?’
‘I’m not sure yet. None of us are. All we know about Duley, all anyone knows, is that the man was politically active. The first entry we came across in his diary was Respect. That’s you, Mr George. No one’s saying it’s a crime, being a politician. We’re just keen to know what made Duley tick.’
‘Good question.’
‘You’re telling me you don’t know?’
There was a long silence. Then came the scrape of a match as George lit the roll-up. At length, picking a shred of tobacco from his lower lip, he asked which one of them was Special Branch.
‘I am,’ Barber said. ‘Or was.’
‘So you’d know about the kind of people we are, the kind of people we attract.’
‘All sorts.’
‘Exactly. I could take you out of this building right now and I could introduce you to maybe a dozen people I’m proud to call my political allies. Teachers, lecturers, tradespeople, blokes from the dockyard, students, the unwaged, one guy who happens to be an antiquarian bookseller. They all sign up, they all come along to the meetings, they all do their bit, but when I ask myself about motive, most of the time I haven’t a clue. We’re fellow travellers. We’re sharing a journey. We agree on the essentials. But beyond that, it’s often guesswork. Why do they do it? Why does anyone do anything? You tell me.’
‘You didn’t know Duley well?’
‘No, but then that’s not unusual. Respect isn’t a social club.’
‘So how long had he been around?’
‘With us? A year at the most.’
‘And you hadn’t come across him before then?’
‘No. He walked into a meeting we were having one night, held his hand up when we needed bodies on the street, put himself about for us.’
‘How?’
‘By selling newspapers, by signing people up for various petitions, by canvassing back in the May election. I know you guys think it’s all barricades and black flags, the left, but you’re wrong. Democracy’s bloody hard work. People like Duley are gold dust.’
‘He was good at it?’
‘He was conscientious.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He got the stuff done. You could
trust him. Some people thought … ’ George broke off.
‘Thought what?’
‘ … thought he talked too much. He certainly had a mouth on him and some days it could wear you out, the sheer energy of the man, but in our position you’d be mad to complain. Half a dozen Duleys and we could leaflet most of Southsea in a couple of evenings.’
Faraday nodded and made a note. He decided he liked this man, the way his mind worked, the way he so carefully parcelled out the information, the respect he was implicitly paying to his dead comrade. Everything he’d said so far keyed in exactly with the picture Faraday was beginning to put together. Duley the activist. Duley the volunteer. Total commitment laced with a hint or two of mania.
‘He ran a workshop in Buckland,’ Faraday began. ‘What was that about?’
‘I’ve no real idea except he managed to swing the funding somehow. Credit to him. These days that’s not simple.’
‘But what was it about? In broad terms?’
‘Local history. We had a couple of posters up for a bit.’
‘And he’d have taken -’ Faraday paused. ‘- A particular line?’
‘Of course.’ George was smiling now. ‘Spithead Mutiny. Battle of Southsea Common. Patterns of outsourcing from the dockyard. Labour exploitation in the corset industry. It’s all there if you look hard enough.’
‘What’s all there, Mr George?’
‘The kind of role a city like this ends up playing. Pompey was founded on blood and treasure, Mr Faraday. We spill the blood; someone else gets the treasure. Sweet deal if you happen to be on the receiving end. Duley understood that. He was a bright man. And, like I say, he was good on his feet, had a way with words.’
‘What about his other affiliations?’ Faraday asked. ‘The anarchists? Free the Kurds? Duley put himself about a bit, didn’t he?’
‘Of course he did. That’s not uncommon. In fact we’ve got a phrase for it. No fixed abode.’
‘So where was the middle of him? Where did it all hang together?’
‘I’m not sure it did.’
‘What does that mean?’
George shook his head, taking a deep lungful of smoke, refusing for the time being to go any further, and Faraday sensed at last that they’d arrived at some kind of bend in the road. He bent forward in the chair, his face in the pool of light from the desk lamp.
‘Here’s a man with a war record. He’s been arrested umpteen times, he’s got his name in the papers, a couple of times he’s nearly found himself banged up. But when you analyse all that, try and join the dots together, what do you see? Mr Rent-a-Cause?’
‘That’s offensive.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the man had physical courage. And physical courage was something that mattered to him.’
‘Mattered that other people recognised it? Mattered that he was out front, drawing a crowd, having a go? What does that say about him?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But you must have, or at least you must have thought about it. For most of his political life Duley’s head was way above the parapet. He’s in there, mixing it. Like you say, he’s brave, even reckless. Then he suddenly ends up tied to a railway line.’
‘You’re telling me there’s a connection?’
‘I’m asking.’
‘Then you’re wrong.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because I know these people. Duley was a strange man, a loner, a solitary, but that’s not uncommon. If you want the plod to the ballot box, the daily grind, the battle to win the public debate, you stick with people like me. If you want something a little more … ah … colourful, then maybe Duley’s your man. But that’s not what put him in the tunnel. Not the way I see it. You just don’t make those kinds of enemies.’
‘You said loner.’ It was Barber this time.
‘That’s right.’
‘In what sense?’
‘In the sense that he didn’t have a box, not full time, not a box he could call his own. He wasn’t SWP, Old Labour. He hadn’t come out of the CND tradition, the Aldermaston marches. He wasn’t Green. He didn’t spend his life blowing up vets’ premises with the animal rights lot. He wasn’t even an anarchist, not properly.’
‘Just a bit of everything? Pick and mix?’
‘That’s glib.’
‘But you take the point?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘So how come you just told us he was … ’ Barber glanced down at her notes, ‘ … conscientious? Did his bit? Delivered all those leaflets?’
‘Because he was serious, because he was committed.’
‘To what, exactly?’
George rocked in his chair, sucked in another lungful of smoke, blew it out again.
‘Oh, come on … ’ he said at last. ‘Do I have to spell it out? People like Duley regard themselves as free spirits. They don’t like authority. They hate people telling them what to do. They think, in the end, they’re only answerable to their own consciences. You ask me what these people are committed to, and I have to say I don’t know. Which is why they always move on.’
‘But he didn’t,’ Faraday pointed out. ‘He stayed.’
George looked at him for a long moment, then pinched the end of his roll-up and buried the stub amongst the pencil shavings. At length, he consulted his watch and got to his feet.
‘I’m out of time,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Faraday didn’t move. He wanted to know whether George ever talked to Duley on the phone.
‘Yeah, of course. Just like I talk to everyone else.’
‘He had a mobile?’
‘Yeah.’ George frowned. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘You’ve got the number?’
‘I must have, yeah, God knows where though.’ He reached for the leather jacket behind the door. ‘You want me to phone you later with it?’
Misty Gallagher had already ordered her first bottle of Moët by the time Winter made it to the American Bar. The Old Portsmouth pub was a ten-minute stroll from Gunwharf, and a recent change of ownership had filled the restaurant most nights. Late booking, Winter had been lucky to get the last table.
‘Long time, no see.’ Winter interposed his bulk between Misty and a tall, gelled youth half her age. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘Fine.’ She was peering over Winter’s shoulder, trying to finish the previous conversation. ‘I’d introduce you, love, but I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Kevin.’
‘Ah. Kev. This is Paul Winter. We go back a while.’
Winter at last turned to acknowledge the new suitor.
‘Nice to meet you, son.’ Winter lifted the bottle and nodded towards the buzz of conversation through the open door. ‘Shall we?’
Misty followed him into the restaurant. Only when they sat down did she tell Winter about the champagne.
‘That’s Kev’s,’ she said. ‘He’s picking up the tab.’
‘Excellent.’ Winter was already signalling for a glass. ‘Known him long?’
‘Twenty minutes.’
‘The lad’s due a toast then. Here’s to a great conversation. Shame it was so brief.’
He checked around the nearby tables for familiar faces while the waitress poured the champagne.
‘Packed,’ he said approvingly. ‘Must be making a fortune.’
Misty was still watching the bar. There came the slam of a door, then the roar of an engine outside. Evidently young Kevin had gone.
‘Wimp,’ she muttered, touching glasses with Winter. ‘Back in the land of the living, eh?’
‘Who told you about that?’
‘Baz. You want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
Winter seized the menu. For years Misty Gallagher had been Bazza Mackenzie’s mistress, feasting off his chokehold on the Pompey cocaine trade. He’d set her up in a series of apartments, paid regular visits and given her a lifestyle to match. As far as Bazza was aware, she’d even had a dau
ghter by him, a beautiful, truculent adolescent called Trudy.
Then came the news that Trudy’s real father was Bazza’s partner in crime, car dealer Mike Valentine, and Misty’s goose was well and truly cooked when Bazza discovered that his mistress had never really lost her taste for Valentine’s charms. Winter had naturally done his best to turn all this drama to good account but none of the parties involved was the least bit interested in grassing each other up, which was, on the face of it, a bit of a shame.
The last time Winter had seen Misty in the flesh was a couple of years back, after Special Ops had rigged Mike Valentine’s cabin on the night Le Havre crossing. Winter and a handful of other detectives had settled down to watch Misty giving Valentine the blow job of his dreams when Bazza had burst in and tried to burn the cabin down. Winter’s most cherished memory from that surreal evening had been the sight of Misty telling Bazza he’d got the wrong end of the stick. The startled friend with the flagging erection, she insisted, was nothing more than a travelling companion.
‘So how is he? Valentine? Still got the place in Croatia?’
‘Dunno.’ Misty shrugged. ‘We fell out after the first year. It rained a lot. In the end I couldn’t stand it any longer so I came home. Mike always fancied Nice. Maybe that’s where he is now.’
‘You see Bazza at all?’
‘Yeah.’ Her fingers traced the line of the pendant necklace that disappeared into her ample cleavage. ‘He’s been very grown-up about it, especially where Trude’s concerned. They’ve always got on really well. He’s just written off all the other nonsense. Mike’s out of his hair. That’s all that matters. That and you tossers.’
‘He thinks we’ve lost interest?’
‘Definitely.’ She nodded.
‘He’s right.’
‘You want me to tell him that?’
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