Winter was describing the Crime Squad bust on Pennington Road.
Everything had gone to rat shit, he said, and they'd been playing catchup ever since.
"What's that got to do with my son?"
Winter eyed him for a moment, the look again, careful, appraising. He'd spent half his life climbing in and out of other people's heads — weighing up what they knew and what they didn't and Faraday knew he was doing it now.
"In this business, it pays not to be surprised," he said at last. "No surprises. Make a note. Stick it on my tombstone."
"And?"
"You don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
"About your boy."
"No." Faraday shook his head. "I don't."
Winter nodded, some deep intuitive suspicion confirmed, and then gazed out to sea again. Miles away, against the low hump of the Isle of Wight, a small, brown sail.
"OK, boss," he said. "This is off the record. We had obs on the Pennington Road premises yesterday afternoon, high profile. We're not bothering with court any more. The plan is to run these animals out of town."
"We?"
"Me and a young lad, Jimmy Suttle." He glanced at Faraday. "Country boy. Not a problem."
"And?"
"Your lad turned up at No. 30. That's the address we did the previous night."
"You're telling me he was there to score?"
"It wasn't a social call."
"You arrested him?"
"No. I sent Suttle after him. It's all intelligence-led these days, isn't it? All that cobblers? Anyway, Suttle followed him halfway across the city. You'll know where he went."
"Hampshire Terrace?"
"Spot on. Ambrym Productions. The lovely Ms Sykes. Suttle hung around for a while, then I picked him up."
"And that was it? You didn't stop the boy? Search him?"
"No, boss. I thought' he shrugged, hunching a little deeper into his anorak 'it was better to give you a bell."
"Why?"
"Because I owe you."
"Really?"
"Yeah. You're a funny bugger sometimes but I think you've got more bollocks than most of the twats I've known in your job. That make any sense?"
Faraday was conscious of a flooding warmth. With an effort, he kept the smile off his face.
"None," he said. "Are we done now?"
"Not quite."
"There's more?"
"I'm afraid so." He turned from the railing and looked Faraday in the eye. "How come I'm the one telling you this?"
"Telling me what?"
"About your boy. After we left him, he went to Old Portsmouth. Your lady friend's making some kind of video. J-J must have taken the gear with him. They taped a student shooting up, then fucked off. Which is a shame, really."
"Why?"
"The student died."
For a long moment, Faraday lost his concentration. After Hampshire Terrace, he'd followed this sequence of events step by step, no surprises, matching Winter's laconic account against the images he'd seen on Eadie's rushes. He knew J-J had been behind the camera. He'd explored the criminal implications of their presence at the flat. But not for a moment had he expected the punchline.
"Died?" he said numbly.
"Inhalation of vomit. I've seen the paperwork. The gear must have been extra-special."
"Who discovered the body?"
"An ex-girlfriend. Apparently she'd helped set up the interview in the first place."
"When did she find out?"
"Round eleven, eleven thirty. She'd gone round to kiss him goodnight.
Bit late as it turned out."
"Do you have a name for the girlfriend?"
"Sarah somebody. Bev's picked it up from Dawn. Dawn was duty last night."
Sarah. Faraday closed his eyes, rocking slowly on his heels, picturing Eadie retreating into her bedroom at the flat as he made his own exit for work. Sarah had been on the phone first thing. Eadie, the woman he slept with, trusted, loved even, had kept this appalling secret for half a day and said absolutely nothing. Not a phone call. Not an e-mail. Not a cautionary heads-up. Nothing.
Faraday swallowed hard, battling to get the next few hours into perspective. He knew the investigative machine by heart, every working part. A heroin overdose. Dodgy gear. A video camera tracking the prospective corpse to bed. And now evidence from two DCs on the exact provenance of the killer wrap. Open and shut case. Collusion in procuring Class A drugs. Plus a possible manslaughter charge. With his own son in the dock.
"Who's holding the file?"
"Bev Yates."
"Does he know about' Faraday gestured loosely at the space between them 'this?"
"No, boss."
"OK." Faraday nodded, stepping away. "Then tell him."
Chapter eleven
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 14.11
Faraday was still waiting for the phone to ring when Willard stepped into his office. He'd left several voice messages on all Eadie's numbers and a curt text on J-J's mobile. Neither had called back.
"We need to talk before Brian Imber gets here." Willard shut the door.
"You've got a moment?"
"Help yourself." Faraday nodded at the spare chair.
"I was up at HQ this morning. Had a session with Terry Alcott. He wants us to move Tumbril along. He's not saying so but the pressure must be coming from the top. That's the way I read it."
Faraday was eyeing the telephone. Terry Alcott was the Assistant Chief Constable responsible for CID and Special Operations, an impressive operator with a long Met pedigree. A respected voice on several national policing bodies, he was one of the few senior officers privy to the inner workings of Tumbril.
"He's still on side "Absolutely. But I think he's getting nervous about the funding. Wants a scalp or two, something to put on the Chief's desk. That girl in the media unit was on to me just now. She's been fielding calls from the national press about the incident on the station this morning, wanted a steer. I said talk of turf wars was totally inappropriate. This is Pompey. Not the West Midlands."
"And you believe that?"
"Of course not. And neither does Terry Alcott. Which is why you need to have a word with Graham Wallace."
Faraday turned the proposition over for a moment or two. Nick Hayder had been carefully developing the Spit Bank Fort sting for the best part of three months. So far, it had worked like a dream. Why let a flurry of press interest hazard the end game "The next move is Mackenzie's," he said. "That's the way Nick planned it."
"I realise that. What I'm asking you to do is look at the script again, have a chat with Wallace, see whether we can't put a bit more pressure on Mackenzie. One way or another we have to be seen to be on top of this, ahead of the game. That's Terry Alcott talking, not me."
Faraday pulled a pad towards him and scribbled a note. If the media were getting excited about a Scouser shackled to a ticket barrier, what would they make of a DI's son charged with manslaughter?
"You hear about the Cavalier?" Willard had treated himself to a rare smile. "The one that did Nick Hayder?"
"Yes."
"Nice one, eh? Do Cathy Lamb a power of good. All we need now is the other little bastard in the car and we can put them both away.
Attempted murder, possession with intent to supply, you're looking at a fair old stretch."
"We can evidence the supply charge?"
"Scenes of Crime found half a dozen wraps in the glove box Whoever said Scousers were bright?" Willard chuckled, then got to his feet.
"News from the hospital, by the way. Nick's back with us again.
Recovered consciousness last night."
"How is he?"
"Groggy. Can't remember anything about the incident and not a lot before that. They'll be doing more tests this afternoon."
"He's still in Critical Care?"
"For the time being. But the bloke I talked to thought they'd probably be transferring him to a regular ward as soon as they'd got a bed.
Might pop up there this evening, see if he remembers me." He glanced back at Faraday. "Fancy it?"
"Of course." Faraday was still thinking about J-J. Sooner or later he'd have to level with Willard, tell him exactly what had happened, but there seemed little point before he could raise either Eadie or his son.
"What's this, then?" Willard was pointing at one of the photos on the cork board over Faraday's desk. It showed a mottled brown bird, almost invisible against the backdrop of dead leaves and old bracken. Faraday got to his feet and joined him. He couldn't remember when Willard had last displayed the slightest interest in his private life.
"Nightjar," he said. "There was a family of them on the heath in the New Forest. With any luck, they'll be back in May."
Willard nodded, scanning the rest of the photos.
"Still at it, then? You and our feathered friends?"
"Afraid so. Keeps me out of mischief."
"Your boy still tag along? Only I remember he was pretty interested."
"No." Faraday shook his head. "J-J's fled the nest, pretty much."
"Off your hands, then?"
"I wouldn't say that."
Willard glanced at his watch. The Tumbril meeting with Brian Imber was due to start in a couple of minutes. Imber might be waiting even now.
The Det-Supt nodded at the pad on Faraday's desk, then reached for the door handle.
"Mum's the word, eh? About Wallace?"
The parking in the commercial heart of Southsea was a nightmare. DC Jimmy Suttle took his chances on a double yellow, pulling the unmarked squad Fiesta behind a long line of cars. Beside him, Paul Winter was peering at a property across the road: big Georgian sash windows and a glimpse of a handsome porticoed entrance behind an encircling eight-foot wall. The walls of adjoining properties, equally grand, had been defaced with graffiti. On the wall across the road, not a mark.
"Bazza HQ." Winter helped himself to another Werther's Original. "Told you he'd come up in the world."
The last time he'd paid a visit, a couple of years back, the place had been a gentlemen's club, a gloomy, shadowed echo of the dying days of empire. Run-down and barely used, Bazza had bought it for cash from the trustees, meaning to restore the interior to its former glory. Back in the nineteenth century, one of Southsea's premier families had lived here, a brewer who'd made his fortune slaking Pompey thirsts. A man with political ambitions, he'd ended up as the city's mayor, bringing a gruff, broad-chested impatience to deliberations in the council chamber. Mackenzie had evidently read a pamphlet or two about the man, sensing how shrewdly he'd turned business success to other ends, and rather fancied running his own commercial empire from within the same four walls. Craneswater was fine if you wanted a decent place to live, somewhere nice for the missus and kids, but the middle of Southsea was where you'd leave your real mark.
Suttle reached for his door handle. Chris Talbot also operated from the pile across the road. There were questions he needed to answer about the Scouse lad in the back of the Transit, about the abandoned Cavalier in Portsea.
"Wait." Suttle felt Winter's hand on his arm.
Electronically controlled gates sealed the house off from the road. As they swung back, Suttle recognised the bulky figure in a leather jacket, pausing beside a low-slung Mercedes convertible. Chris Talbot.
"What's the problem?" Suttle had the door open now. "Either we front up now or we lose him."
"Wait," Winter repeated.
Another figure appeared in the driveway beside the Mercedes. She was tall and blonde with wraparound shades and the kind of tan you couldn't buy from a salon. It was hard to be sure at fifty metres, but she didn't seem to be smiling.
"The lovely Marie," Winter murmured. "Bazza's missus."
Talbot opened the boot. Marie handed him a bag, then checked her watch. Time was plainly moving on.
"OK." Winter gave Suttle the nod. "Let's go."
They walked across the road. Talbot saw them coming. Winter stood in the drive, blocking the exit to the road.
"Christopher," he said amiably. "Thought we might have a chat."
Talbot glanced at Marie, then circled the car. His shaved head was mapped with scars and a tiny silver cross hung from one ear lobe. His eyes, screwed up against the bright sunlight, were pouched with exhaustion and his face had a slightly yellowish tint. Once, thought Suttle, this bloke might have been good-looking.
"Well?" Winter wanted an answer.
"No chance." Talbot nodded down at the car. "Just off. Marie fancies a run out to Chichester."
"Riding shotgun, are we? Keeping the Indians off?" Winter glanced up at the house, aware of a watching face at an upstairs window. "We can either do it here or at our place. Your choice. The quicker we get it sorted, the sooner you get to Laura Ashley. So what's it to be?"
There was a sudden movement behind the car. Marie had produced a set of keys. Getting into the driver's seat revealed the extent of her tan.
"Where are you going?" Talbot bent down to her window.
"Chichester, where do you bloody think? You want to talk to these guys, that's fine by me."
"Listen, Baz said '
"Fuck Baz."
She gunned the engine, her face expressionless behind the windscreen and the designer shades. To Suttle's surprise, despite the language there wasn't a trace of Pompey in her accent.
Talbot bent to the driver's window again, then had second thoughts.
Looking up at the house, he put his hand to his mouth. The piercing whistle opened a window. A younger face leaned out.
"Chichester, son," Talbot yelled. "Marie needs company."
"See?" Winter was beaming at Suttle. "Apaches everywhere."
Marie and her new escort gone, Winter and Suttle followed Talbot into the house. Winter, with a memory of cobwebbed windows and threadbare moquette, paused inside the gleaming front door, already impressed. A new-looking floor lapped at the edges of the enormous hall. A big chandelier hung from an elaborate ceiling rose. Even the air itself smelled of money.
"Bazza given up on pool?" Winter gestured at the golf bag propped beside the front door.
Talbot ignored him. An elegant staircase wound up towards the first floor. Winter paused beside the second of the framed pictures. Once, this staircase would have been lined with family portraits, specially commissioned in oils, the brewer's entire dynasty gazing down on visitors below. Now, each of these huge blow-up photos captured a moment at Fratton Park: Alan Knight palming a shot over the bar, Paul Merson at full throttle down the wing, Todorov lashing the ball into the net, the crowd erupting beyond him. There was even a shot of Alan Ball, the day Pompey last made it into the top division, his arm round his beaming chairman.
"This isn't a house," Suttle muttered. "It's a fucking shrine."
Talbot led them to an office at the end of the top landing. The desk looked new and there was a gentle hum from the PC. Two filing cabinets flanked the big sash window. A coffee machine was bubbling on the table beside the desk and the year planner on the wall above was already thick with appointments stretching into early summer. In early June, five days were blocked off for Wimbledon.
"This yours, then?" Winter gestured round.
"Bazza's. He's away today."
"What's this?" It was Suttle. He'd spotted a big French tricolour carefully draped on the back of the door. It was the one splash of colour amongst the muted greens and browns.
Talbot refused to answer. Winter was looking amused.
"Go on. The boy's a Saints fan. Tell him."
Talbot shot Winter a look then sank into the chair behind the desk and helped himself to a coffee.
"Bollocks to that. You want to talk business, go ahead. If I want a social chat I can think of better company."
Winter was eyeing the percolator.
"Just the one sugar will be fine."
"Help yourself."
"I will. James?"
Suttle still wanted to know about the flag. At length, the coffees po
ured, Winter filled in the details. Back in the eighties, a boatload of fans had taken the early ferry to Le Havre to supply a bit of Pompey support in a cross-Channel pre-season friendly. Pre-warned about the 6.57, the French police had refused to let the blue army off the boat.
Mid morning, already pissed, dozens of them jumped overboard and swam across the harbour to dry land. After a while, the gendarmes gave up and let the rest off. Big mistake.
"Why?"
"Rape and pillage. The game didn't start until the afternoon and Le Havre's full of bars. Worse still, it's full of Frenchmen. Not their fault, no offence, but the Pompey weren't having it. Trashed the place. Just trashed it. Then they all jumped in a load of cabs and went off to the game. Place called Honfleur down the coast. Used to have a nice little ground till our lot took it apart. Got the game abandoned, too. The Goths had nothing on the 6.57. Eh, Chris?"
"And this thing?" Suttle nodded at the flag.
"That was afterwards, the way I heard it. Bazza came across a bar they'd missed first time round. The name of the place was the real wind-up."
What was it called?"
"Cafe de Southampton. The flag was out front, only bit to survive."
Winter chuckled to himself, then poured more coffee. At length, Talbot yawned.
"You going to get on with this or what? Only some of us have a living to make."
"Of course."
Winter put his coffee to one side and produced his pocketbook. Talbot and his mate had been clocked at the station at half past two in the morning. What happened before then?
Talbot pushed the chair back from the desk and stretched his legs. Then he clasped his hands behind his neck and gazed up at the ceiling.
"You want it all?"
"Please."
"OK. We were down in Gunwharf. Few bevvies. Quiet for a Wednesday."
"Time?"
"Late. Forty Below chucks out at two. Must have been around then, give or take. Then we wandered back to the motor, you know, the way you do."
"We?"
"Me and Steve Pratchett."
"He works for Bazza?"
"He's a subbie plasterer."
"Where do we find him?"
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