"That's why Wallace came as a bit of a shock. He was Mackenzie's wake-up call."
Faraday was trying to put himself in Mackenzie's shoes. After all the plans, all the gloating phone calls to his mates, came the sudden news that some total stranger had stepped into the city and virtually doubled his bid. As a wind-up, it was undeniably sweet. But as a potential sting, thought Faraday, it still had some way to go.
"Mackenzie's after a meet. Before Wallace puts the surveyors in."
"I know." Willard nodded. "We needed to back Mackenzie up against a deadline, make him sweat. That's why Wallace has the surveyors on standby for Friday next week. My guess is we're probably talking Wednesday or Thursday for the meet."
Faraday smiled. He was thinking of Wallace in the hotel room earlier.
The over-loud tie, the ear stud, the brash little touches. Young guy on the make. Clever.
"You really think Mackenzie has him down as a dealer? Same line of business?"
"That's the plan."
"And you think he believes it?"
"I'll be disappointed if he doesn't."
Faraday turned the proposition over in his mind. Turf was important, whatever line of business you happened to be in. The last thing Mackenzie needed was serious competition, and in a city like Portsmouth there was an added complication. Pompey belonged to her own. Intruders like Wallace needed reminding of that.
"So how will Mackenzie play it? Violence? Half a dozen mates round the corner?"
"Maybe." Willard shrugged. "Or he might just try buying him off. If he's silly enough to talk drugs, or some kind of co-distribution deal, we're home and dry. If it's a straightforward bung, he's still exposed himself. Either way, we end up with evidence. And not before time, eh?"
Willard broke off. He'd picked up the distant thump-thump of a fast inflatable and he turned in time to catch the rib powering down for the passage up-harbour. The controls were manned by a slight, solitary figure in a blue anorak. Minutes later, Willard was doing the introductions.
"Gisela Mendel." Willard nodded towards Faraday. "Joe Faraday. I mentioned him on the phone."
Faraday smiled hello. Her handshake was businesslike. The big outboards were still idling below them. She needed to be back at the fort asap.
"No problem."
Willard had taken charge, bending to slip the rope she'd made fast to the bollard, and Faraday sensed at once that there was something between them. He'd rarely seen Willard so animated, so eager. He seemed to have shed years.
Faraday clambered down into the inflatable and zipped up his anorak.
Gisela, behind her dark glasses, was waiting for Willard to cast off.
Her hand was ready on the twin throttles perfect nails, blood red. When she turned to check the clearance beyond the bow, the last of the sunshine shadowed the planes of her face. Mid forties, thought Faraday. Maybe less.
Once Willard was on board, she eased away from the jetty, burbling out towards the harbour. The wind was stronger here, the slap of halyards against the masts of a line of moored yachts, and once they'd cleared the harbour entrance, she pushed the throttles wide open against the stops.
The inflatable responded at once, surging forward, and Faraday braced himself, glad he'd rescued a woollen scarf from the Mondeo. Willard was sitting beside him, oblivious to the freezing spray. Twice he shouted something to Gisela but the wind and the roar of the outboards carried his words away. Watching her at the wheel, Faraday realised how often she must have made this journey. She rode the inflatable like a horse, with immense skill, driving it hard at the oncoming waves then nudging left and right as she felt for the grain of the flooding tide. Over towards Ryde, Faraday could see the bulk of a container ship, outward bound from Southampton, and when he looked back towards the shoreline he thought he could just make out the line of apartments next to South Parade pier, white in the gathering dusk.
The tidal stream around the fort, a foaming river of water, made berthing tricky. Faraday could smell the dampness of the place, sense the history behind the glistening granite blocks. Willard was playing the sailor again, doing his best to grab a stanchion as the inflatable surged up and down, and Faraday caught the expression on Gisela's face as she nudged the bow towards the waiting pair of hands on the landing stage above them. She looked amused.
A rope ladder provided access to the landing stage. Willard caught a wave as he waited a second too long and was soaking wet by the time Faraday hauled him upwards. Gisela was the last off, leaving the inflatable to be secured for the return trip.
They followed her into the fort. It was nearly dark now, and the vaulted passageway that led to the central courtyard was softly lit by wall lights cleverly recessed into the granite walls. There were more of these feminine touches in the courtyard itself tubs of year-round flowers, a sturdy little palm tree, tables and chairs warmed by a thicket of space heaters but there was no disguising the essence of this place. A sense of military purpose hung over everything. It was there in the brick-lined casemates around the edge of the courtyard, in the iron spiral staircase that disappeared into the bowels of the fort, in the hand-lettered notices that Gisela had so carefully preserved.
Number 14 Store Hammocks, read one. Caution Shell Lift, warned another.
"We use these two as classrooms. The rest is accommodation." Gisela had paused outside one of the casemates.
Faraday peered in. Perhaps a dozen figures sat at individual desks. A tutor was standing at the front, a map of the Balkans on the blackboard behind him. One of the women in the class had her hand in the air.
"You want to eavesdrop?"
"No." It was Willard. The soaking on the ladder had tested his sense of humour. He wanted a towel and something hot to drink.
"So." Gisela's English carried the faintest trace of a foreign inflection. "Upstairs, then."
She led the way across the courtyard and up another flight of steps. At the top, Faraday recognised the white structure he'd glimpsed earlier from Eadie's flat. A newly painted door opened into a tiny lobby. It was suddenly warm inside and there was a smell of fresh flowers. This was obviously where Gisela lived.
"You know where the bathroom is. I'll make tea."
Willard disappeared and Faraday followed Gisela into a living room. The wide picture windows faced north, across the deep-water shipping lane, and Faraday could make out the line of coloured lights that ran the length of Southsea promenade. Beyond them, in the gloom, the black spire of St. Jude's church.
"You drink tea?" Her voice came through a hatch from the galley kitchen.
"Please. Two sugars."
Faraday gazed round. The room had been furnished with some care, neat rather than cosy. A compact, two-seat sofa faced the window. There was a television in one corner and a fold-down table in another. The laptop on the table was open and the screen saver featured a view down an Alpine valley. Faraday's attention was caught by a framed photo propped beside a row of paperbacks in the bookcase above the table. It showed Gisela in a striking yellow hat beside a heavy-set man in his middle fifties. The man was bowing. Gisela was performing an elegant curtsey. The third figure in the photograph was the Queen.
"Buck House garden party." Willard had emerged from the bathroom.
"Hubby got the CBE."
"For?"
"Services to the nation. Merchant of death."
"He lives here, too?"
"Visits very occasionally. They've got a place up in Henley, river frontage, paddocks for the horses, the lot. You could fit Kingston Crescent into the walled garden with room to spare."
Faraday at last turned round. Willard had found a sweater from somewhere, an expensive polo neck in black cashmere wool, almost a perfect fit. The man in the photo, thought Faraday. Similar build.
Gisela returned with a tray of tea. She turned off the laptop and made space on the table. Willard organised another couple of chairs from the room next door and then got down to business. For Faraday's benefit, he wanted Gisela t
o describe her dealings with Bazza Mackenzie.
Gisela was looking amused again, that same expression, and Faraday found himself wondering quite where this relationship parted company with Tumbril. Willard never let anyone in the job anywhere near his private life but there'd always been rumours that the partner in Bristol wasn't quite enough.
"He phoned first, very friendly. That was a couple of months ago. Just after Christmas. He'd heard this place was for sale and he wanted to come out and take a look. He arrived next day."
"Alone?"
"No. He came with a couple of friends, both of them older. Tommy?"
She was looking at Willard. l]aV "Tommy Cross." Willard nodded. "Used to work in the dockyard. Bazza uses him as a cut-price structural engineer, sorts out the conversions when Mackenzie's in the mood for another cafe-bar. It was Tommy who gave this place the once-over. Stayed most of the day, didn't he?
Drove you mad?" He flashed a smile at Gisela.
"That's right. Lunch and supper. It was dark by the time they went."
Within twenty-four hours, she said, Mackenzie had been back on the phone. He'd drawn up a contract. He had a price in mind. All Gisela had to do was sign.
"As simple as that?" It was Faraday's turn to smile. This was where Mackenzie's list of problems must have come from. Letting Tommy Cross loose on a structure like Spit Bank Fort might have been the best investment Mackenzie ever made. Except that Gisela wasn't having it.
"I turned him down. 200,000 was a joke and I told him so. It cost me 385,000 before I even started."
"What did he say?"
"He laughed. He said he didn't blame me. He also said something else."
"What was that?"
"He said I was a nightmare to do business with."
"Why?"
"Because I was tasty as well as clever."
"He said that? Tasty? That was the word he used?"
"Yes. I think he meant it as a compliment. To be honest, I didn't care. That's the kind of person he is. In your face. Right there."
She held her hand in front of her nose. "After some of my husband's clients, believe me, that's a relief."
"You liked him?"
"Yes, I do. He's not frightened of women. And he's straightforward, too. A silly offer like 200,000? All I have to do is say no. I can live with that."
Within a week, Mackenzie was back on the phone. He'd had a bit of a think. He could go to 250,000. Once again, Gisela just laughed.
"And it went on," she said. "Another 10,000, another 10,000. In the end I said there were easier ways to chat a woman up. He agreed."
"So what happened?"
"He invited me out. We went to Gunwharf, Forty Below. You know it?"
Faraday nodded. Forty Below featured in most of the weekend disturbance reports. Ambulance crews set their clocks by Friday night's first call to a serious affray. This woman could take her pick of Europe's finest restaurants. Only Bazza Mackenzie would treat her to Forty Below.
"How did you get on?"
"Fine. He made me laugh. I liked that."
"And the fort? The business?"
"He said he had to have it. He told me all about his plans, the casino, the decor, the kind of food he wanted to serve, special suites for honeymooners. He was like a kid with a new toy. It was sweet, really."
"And the price?"
"He'd got to 400,000."
"So what did you say?"
"No. He said he couldn't go another penny higher but he offered to sleep with me. That would take it up to half a million."
"Sleeping with Mackenzie's worth a hundred grand?" Faraday began to laugh.
"You can hear him on the tapes." Willard was gazing out at the lights of Southsea. "Can you believe that? Mackenzie?
"He's funny," Gisela said again. "I think he meant it as a joke."
Willard ignored this mild reproof. What was important just now was the presence of Wallace in the bidding. By upping the price to 900,000, he explained to Gisela, Tumbril had put the screws on Mackenzie.
"Deep down, the guy's unstable. Everyone knows it. What we need is a deadline. That's where the survey comes in. Part of me says we agree to meet before Friday. He might just compromise himself to sort the whole thing out. Otherwise we leave it a week or so. Wallace gets the thumbs-up from the survey and makes a decision to go ahead. At that point, Mackenzie has to make a move. Either he tops the offer or gets rid of the opposition."
"You really think he'll pay another half million?" Gisela was gazing out into the dark.
"To be frank, no."
"Pity… ' "Oh?" For the first time, Willard was on new ground. "Why's that?"
Gisela studied him a moment, the way you might assess a child's preparedness for bad news, then she touched him lightly on the hand.
"I'm afraid the story's changed. I really do have to sell the place."
She smiled. "And 900,000 in cash would be more than acceptable."
"You're serious?"
"Perfectly."
"May I ask why?"
"Of course." The smile faded. "Peter and I are divorcing."
Misty Gallagher was drunk by the time the cab dropped her off at the Indian Palace. Paul Winter had phoned her earlier, planning to drive down to Gunwharf and pay her a social call, but Misty was adamant that she'd had enough of the apartment. She and Trude had been at it since late afternoon. Another hour of that kind of abuse and she'd take a carving knife to her mouthy daughter.
Winter had his usual table at the back of the restaurant. He'd been coming here for months now and he liked the people who ran it. He gave them all kinds of bullshit but they knew he was lonely and they treated him well. At forty-five, robbed of a wife you'd taken for granted, you appreciated that kind of courtesy.
"Misty. Long time."
He got to his feet and guided her into the waiting chair. She was wearing a see-through black top over a pair of spray-on jeans. Unless Winter was bloody careful, the waiters would be selling tickets at the door.
"Paul…" Her eyes were glassy. "They do wine here?"
"Sure. White?"
"Rose."
"Of course. Mateus OK?" He signalled towards the bar without waiting for an answer. When the waiter came over, he pointed to number 7 on the wine list. "And another Stella for me, son." He turned back to Misty. She was trying to find a lighter for her cigarette. "How's tricks, then, Mist? Still getting it?"
"Fuck off. You know, don't you?"
"Know what?"
"Me and Bazza." She'd found the lighter. "Man's a prick."
Winter did his best to look reproachful. It had been common knowledge for more than a year that Bazza Mackenzie had decided to trade Misty in for a newer model, but he'd somehow assumed that Misty would cope.
Evidently not.
"I caught him in Clockwork the other night with that Italian bitch. Had it out with him then and there."
Clockwork was the hottest of the late-night clubs down by South Parade pier, currently fashionable amongst the city's more successful criminals. Misty, on the wrong end of a bottle of Moet, had found Bazza at the bar with the lovely Lucia and a bunch of his best mates.
Robbed of the power of speech, Misty had ordered another bottle of Moet, hosed him down, and left him with the bill.
"His mates loved it." She had a smile on her face. "Told me I should have done it months ago."
Bazza, enraged, had pursued Misty onto the se afront Lucia had locked herself in the toilets and half the fucking town was in stitches.
Didn't Misty know that times had moved on? Didn't she have any sense of style? Of occasion? These were strokes you just didn't pull any more. Certainly not in public.
"He sent the agent round next day."
"What agent?"
"The estate agent. Bloke I even knew. Told me Baz had decided to put the flat on the market. That fucking day. Vacant possession. Can you believe that? After all the shit I've had to put up with?"
Winter pulled a face. The wine had arrived
and he steadied Misty's glass as the waiter did the honours. Given the state of the woman, he estimated he had maybe half an hour to coax any sense out of her.
Tops.
"Tell me about Trude, Mist."
"What about her?"
"We found her in a bit of a state last night. She might have told you."
"She tells me fucking nothing. Except what a cow I am. Can you imagine? That kind of language? Your own fucking daughter}'
Winter reached out, closing his hand over hers. For once in his life he was serious.
"Listen, Mist. We found her in a doss house in Fratton. Someone had given her a thumping and tied her to a bed. You wouldn't have any idea who, would you?"
"Thumping?" Misty was trying to make sense of the word. "My Trude?"
"That's right." He watched Misty reach for the glass. "What do you know about Dave Pullen?"
"He's a shag. At it all the time. He's a disgusting man."
"I know. So what's Trude been doing with him? She's a good-looking girl. Christ, Mist, she could have the pick of blokes her own age — decent blokes, bit of education even. What did she ever see in an ape like Pullen?"
Misty blinked at him, the lightest touch on the brakes. She reached for the glass again, and emptied it.
"Mist…?"
"I dunno."
"But you must have known, must have wondered."
"Of course, yeah." She nodded. "Of course I wondered."
"So what's the answer?"
"I'm telling you, I don't know." She tried to focus on another table across the restaurant, and then stifled a hiccough. "He's an older guy," she said at last. "They know how to listen sometimes, older guys. Bit of sympathy, bit of a shoulder, know what I mean?"
Winter was watching her carefully, remembering Trudy at lunchtime in the Gumbo Parlour. Mother and daughter had fallen out, big time, and Trudy seemed to know exactly where to put the blame.
Misty was splashing yet more Mateus into her glass. Winter hadn't seen a bottle disappear so fast since the last time they met.
"What happened to that nice motor dealer Trude used to live with?" he said at last. "Mike Valentine, wasn't it? Up in Waterlooville?"
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