“Have you ever seen a post-mortem?”
“Never.”
“They’re horrible.”
“Good.” Eadie held his gaze for a moment. “Because that’s the whole point.”
The waitress arrived. After some thought, Eckersley settled for a ham salad. Then he folded his newspaper and slipped it into the briefcase beside his chair.
“There’s something else we ought to take on board,” he said finally. “And that’s the effect on your co-sponsors.”
“They’ve all signed up,” Eadie said at once. “I’ve been totally frank from the start. I’ve told them exactly what to expect and there’s absolutely nothing in this video that should take them by surprise. In fact, if anything I thought we’d have the opposite problem.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I couldn’t deliver what I promised. Meaning I’d end up with a mishmash of talking heads and millions of kids in thousands of classrooms all half asleep. Thanks to Dan, that isn’t going to happen.”
“You’re assuming I’m going to let you into the PM?”
“I’m assuming we share the same ambitions for the end result.”
“That’s not necessarily the same thing.”
“Martin, I think deep down you know it is. You’ve got a problem here. I understand that. It’s your jurisdiction, your call. Jesus, as far as I understand it, Daniel Kelly actually belongs to you until you deliver a verdict at the inquest. But let’s just take the bigger picture. I can get permission from Kelly’s father faxed to you this afternoon. That might relieve some of the pressure. Then there’s the shoot itself. I have one-hundred-per-cent confidence in what I’m doing, in the need for all this stuff. I know how it will play on the screen. I know the difference it will make. It’s a tricky thing to do, I know it is, but all I’m asking is an act of faith. Believe in me, Martin. And believe in what we’re trying to do.”
“I’m still concerned about your co-sponsors.”
“Don’t be.”
“The Police Authority? You really think they’ll be up for this?”
“They’ll love it. They spend half their lives trying to give people a shake.”
“The city council?”
“They might well be queasy. But does that make them right?”
“Maybe not, but you’ll have to be ready for all that. And how about your private sponsors? There’ll be enormous publicity, headlines in the press, letters…Have they really signed up for this kind of controversy?”
“Most of them are in for a couple of hundred quid each. If they want to take their names off the project, they’ll be more than welcome.”
“And your Mr. Hughes? 7000, wasn’t it?”
Eadie nodded, surprised at his grasp of the figures. Doug Hughes was Eadie’s first husband, a successful independent accountant with a small clientele of local businessmen. He and Eadie had been divorced now for nearly six years but had stayed good friends. Both her flat and Ambrym’s office premises were rented from her ex-husband’s company, and he’d supported the video project from the start.
“The 7000 isn’t his. He’s simply acting as a middle man. The real donor wants to stay out of it.”
“Anonymous?”
“Absolutely. Even I haven’t got a clue where the seven grand comes from.” She paused, watching the waitress approach an adjoining table with a big bowl of pasta. “Either way, he’s not going to be making any kind of fuss. Does that make things any easier?”
Eckersley didn’t answer. Instead, he waited for the waitress to finish, then beckoned her over.
“Red or white wine?” He glanced across at Eadie with a sudden smile. “My treat.”
Faraday parked his Mondeo outside the cathedral and walked the last fifty metres to the Pembroke. The pub stood on a corner on the main road out to Southsea and had won itself a reputation for reliable beer, home-cooked lunches, and an interesting clientele. Some evenings, you might find yourself drinking alongside half a dozen basses from the cathedral choir. Other nights, you’d be sharing the bar with an assortment of broken-nosed veterans from the Royal Naval field-gun crew.
DC Paul Winter was perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, engrossed in the midday edition of the News. The pub was busy, and to Faraday’s surprise Winter didn’t look out of place amongst the gathering of lunchtime drinkers, men of a certain age blunting the edges of the day with a pint or two before settling down to an afternoon of horse racing in front of the telly. Give Winter a couple of years, thought Faraday, and he might be doing this full time.
“Boss?” Winter had caught his eye and was semaphoring a drink.
“No, thanks.” Faraday barely touched the outstretched hand. “I thought we might take a walk.”
Winter looked at him a moment, then drew his attention to the newspaper. The front page was dominated by a grainy photo showing the concourse at the town station. A couple of medics and a fireman were crouched over a body slumped beside one of the ticket barriers,
while a handful of passengers waited patiently to get through. WELCOME TO POMPEY ran the headline.
“One of the punters had a digital camera in his briefcase.” Winter was buttoning his coat. “Apparently Secretan’s gone ballistic.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know about this morning? One of our Scouse friends?”
“Tell me.”
Winter eased himself off the bar stool, drained the remains of his pint, and shepherded Faraday towards the door. By the time they’d reached the seafront Faraday was up to speed.
“You’re telling me the Cavalier belonged to the kid on the station?”
“Tenner says yes.”
“And the plate checks out with the Nick Hayder vehicle?”
“Scenes of Crime are all over it. They think there may be DNA residues around the offside headlamp. Won’t know for certain until they’ve trucked it away for tests but I’ll give you short odds on another yes. That puts the Scouser in the shit. Big time.”
“We’re talking Nick’s DNA?”
“Yes.”
“So where’s the Scouse kid now?”
“Still in hospital, as far as I know. Cathy Lamb’s sorting some arrangement over protection.”
“From who?”
Winter stared at him. By now they were out on the fortifications, walking briskly towards the fun fair at Clarence Pier.
“Bazza Mackenzie mean anything to you, boss? Local guy? Made a bob or two out of the white stuff? Not fussed who knows it? Only a little bird tells me Bazza’s not best pleased with our Scouse friends. Wants them out of town. Hence the lift to the station.”
“You can prove that?”
“Give me a couple of days,” Winter nodded, ‘and the answer’s yes. Not Bazza himself, of course, but a mate of his, Chris Talbot. We’ve got him on video, him and another fella, doing the business at the station. That’s the thing about Bazza nowadays, isn’t it? Bit fussy about appearances. Can’t stand the sight of blood. Shame, really. He was a good scrapper once.”
Both men had come to a halt on the wooden bridge that straddled the remains of the Spur Redoubt, the outermost edge of the ancient fortifications. From here on, the Pompey garrison would have been in no-man’s land, at the mercy of events, an irony not lost on Faraday.
“You mentioned J-J on the phone,” Faraday said carefully. “What’s happened?”
Winter thought about the question, his hands on the wooden rail of the bridge. To Faraday, he’d always had a certain physical presence, a bluff matey self-confidence that had served him well over the years. Winter was the DC you put into the cells at the Bridewell on a Monday morning, knowing he’d emerge with yet more recruits to his ever-swelling army of informants. And Winter, on a job that took his fancy, was a detective who had the wit and the experience to dream up an angle that would never have occurred to anyone else. In thief-taking terms, as Faraday had frequently pointed out to his exasperated bosses, the man was a priceless asset in any CID off
ice.
Yet at the same time Winter was dangerous. He pledged his loyalty to no one and didn’t care who knew it. Show him a weakness, any weakness, and he’d turn you inside out. Once, a couple of years back, he’d arrived uninvited at the Bargemaster’s House, late at night, bewildered and distraught at what was happening to his dying wife. Joannie had inoperable cancer. The doctors were measuring her life in weeks. And Winter, in his rage and despair, had been utterly lost. For a couple of hours, over a bottle of Bell’s, the two men had stepped out of their respective jobs and simply compared notes. Faraday knew about widowhood and had the scars to prove it. Winter, who’d never ceased to play the field when opportunities presented themselves, just couldn’t contemplate a life without his precious Joannie. He’d let her down. He’d taken her for granted. And now, all too suddenly, it was far, far too late to make amends.
That night, as Winter wandered away into the dark, Faraday had known they’d got as close to each other as two needful human beings ever can. Since then, a dozen small betrayals had given the lie to those moments of kinship. Yet here he was, back on intimate territory, and Faraday wanted to know why.
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 11
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 14.00
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 d
o 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.
Cut To Black Page 18
