“We’ve got forty minutes, tops,” he said. “The machine’s down in the corner. Best if you do the honours.”
Eadie loaded the cassette and resumed her seat. She must have seen the video dozens of times by now but in new company it always felt a subtly different experience. Secretan sat in silence through the viewing.
Twice he reached for a pen and scribbled himself a note. At the end, he nodded.
“Powerful,” he murmured. “You’ve got permissions for all this stuff?”
“Every last frame.”
“And what happens now?”
Eadie explained about distribution. It would be going into schools, youth groups, colleges, anywhere an audience could spare twenty-five minutes of their busy, busy lives.
“They’d be crazy not to.”
“That’s my feeling.” Eadie knelt to the player and retrieved the cassette. “You haven’t asked me about the funding yet.”
“Should I?”
“Well, yes. The way it works, I had to raise half the budget under my own steam. That meant hundreds of letters, phone calls, tantrums, you name it. In the end, I got 5,000 from the Police Authority, 7,000 from a businessman donated through a cut-out, and about 2,000 from other sources.
“Cut-out?”
“My ex-husband. He’s an accountant. Mr. Bountiful wanted to stay out of it.” She smiled and slipped the video cassette into its plastic box. “With my 14,000, I fronted up to the local partnership. They match-fund. It’s government money, as I’m sure you know.”
Secretan nodded. Eadie could see he hadn’t a clue where any of this might lead.
“So?”
“So I end up with 28,000, which is fine, and I put together what you’ve just seen. You think it works?”
“I think it’s extremely effective. In fact I’d go further. I think it’s bloody excellent.”
“Good. Unfortunately, there’s a problem.”
“How come?”
“The guy with the seven grand turns out to be called Bazza Mackenzie.”
Secretan allowed himself a small, private smile. There was indeed a problem.
“This film is co-sponsored by Mackenzie?”
“That’s right. And in the poshest company.” She smiled. “As you can see.”
“Why Mackenzie? What was in it for him?”
“Lots, the way he figured it. That’s why I told him no deal.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday. He was after a share of the profits. I pointed out there won’t be any profits.”
“Do you know what Mackenzie does’ Secretan frowned ‘for a living?”
“Now I do, yes.”
“And do you know he’s just been arrested for arson? On a cross-Channel ferry?”
Eadie thought about this development for a moment or two. In essence, it changed nothing.
“The fact remains he paid for the thing. Or helped to.”
“Indeed.” Secretan nodded. He pushed back his chair and went across to the window again. “We’re talking about J-J, aren’t we?”
“Yes. He’s on police bail. Pending further inquiries.”
Secretan said nothing. Eadie watched him at the window, deep in thought. At length, he turned back to her.
“Great film,” he extended a hand, ‘and outstanding camera work
Eadie got to her feet and shook his hand. Secretan started to laugh.
“I meant the video.” His hand was still out. “There are one or two other people who ought to take a look.”
The entrance to the RSPB bird sanctuary on Farlington Marshes lies at the end of a gravel track that runs beside the main east-west motorway at the top of the city. Most birds are driven south by the incessant thunder of traffic, feasting on the rich mud flats that ring the tongue of salt marsh extending deep into Langstone Harbour. A scrap of land off the slip road from the motorway offers parking for visitors to the sanctuary. Faraday was there with five minutes to spare.
At length, eager for something to take his mind off the imminent encounter, he got out of the Mondeo and looked around. The gravel was littered with broken glass from yet another vehicle break-in and he kicked the worst of it away before slipping his Leica binoculars from their case and propping his elbows on the car roof.
On the second sweep, he caught sight of a pair of lapwings, windmilling above the salt marsh. He’d glimpsed them earlier from the road, driving down beside the harbour, and there they were, in perfect close-up. Absorbed by the small drama of their flight, he failed to hear Harry Wayte’s arrival. Only when the DI got out of his car and crunched towards him across the gravel did Faraday turn round.
“Walk?” Wayte set off down the track towards the picket gate at the end without a backward glance.
All too conscious of the tiny Nagra snugly taped to the small of his back, Faraday followed. For the second time in twelve hours, he felt wretched. Even now, in ruins, Tumbril had the power to overwhelm him.
It was a beautiful morning, a cloudless blue sky with a feather of breeze but scarcely a ripple on the water. Away to the south, barely visible on the horizon, the white smudge of the Bargemaster’s House.
Wayte pushed through the gate at the end of the track. From here, a path on top of the sea wall circled the edge of the reserve. The two men had yet to break the silence.
“Why go bothering her, Joe?” Wayte said at last. If anything, he sounded reproachful.
“Because we just lost a year’s worth of work and God knows how much money. But then you’d know that, Harry.”
“I would?”
“Of course you would.”
“Why’s that?”
Faraday brought Harry Wayte to a halt. Awkwardness had given way to anger. This man had just destroyed a year’s work. No point, he thought, in ducking the obvious.
“You’re not denying that you and Joyce…?”
“Have been shagging? Christ no, Joe. Far from it.”
“And I gather you discussed Tumbril.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“Yes.” Faraday gazed at him, waiting for some kind of comment. Wayte didn’t say a word. “You’re telling me you knew nothing about Tumbril?”
“Nothing that every other bugger in the force didn’t know. You blokes have been chasing your tails. If you’re trying to set me up for the fall or Joyce then you’d better think again.”
“So you never discussed the operation?”
“Pillow talk? Tumbril? Forget it.”
“OK.” Faraday had never expected this to be easy. “Then let’s pretend you’ve had a lapse of memory. Let’s imagine you’ve got what Nick Hayder’s got a bloody great hole instead of perfect recall. Let’s even pretend that I was right, that you did discuss Tumbril, that in fact you knew everything. Are you with me?” The question drew a wary nod from Wayte. “OK, so you’ve had dealings with Mackenzie before. I checked the records this morning. You’ve been passed over for DCI. You’re pissed off with the job and you can’t wait to leave. You also, as we all know, think Tumbril’s a complete waste of space. Why? Because the way you see it, Mackenzie helps keep the peace. You may have a point, Harry. You may even be right. But that’s not it, is it? Because the last thing you do in this job is go telling tales to the enemy.”
“Enemy?” Wayte threw his head back and began to laugh. “Are we talking the same bloke here? The hooligan I nicked for affray twenty years back?”
“Yes.” Faraday nodded. “Nine million quid’s worth of hooligan if you want the exact figure.”
“And you really think I’ve been mouthing off to him? Marking his card?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
The question had been a long time coming. Faraday took Wayte by the arm but Wayte shook him off. The two men began to walk again.
“Professional Standards are mounting a major investigation,” Faraday said. “That’ll take months, Harry. They’ll turn everyone over me, you, Joyce, all of us.”
“And Willard, too. He was SIO, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So how come you think they can tie any of this to me?”
“Because you’ll have been careless, Harry, as well as greedy. There’ll be a trace. There always is. And somewhere down the line, sooner or later, they’ll find it.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m asking you to have a think, Harry. For the record, I’ve got you down as a bloody good cop. I don’t agree with everything you’ve said lately but you wouldn’t expect me to.”
Wayte nodded, then gazed out over the harbour. Tempers had cooled. To Faraday’s surprise, this was turning into a negotiation.
“You know I’m retiring in September?” Wayte asked at last. “Joyce tell you that?”
“She didn’t but you did, Harry. Couple of days ago? Up in the bar at Kingston Crescent?”
“Did I? Shit…” He pulled a face, not the least embarrassed. “And did I tell you I can’t bloody wait?”
“That, too.”
“Bugger me… I must be getting old.”
“Happens, Harry.”
Faraday brought them both to a halt again. Metres from the sea wall, a pair of dunlin were loitering with intent amongst the seaweed on the foreshore. Faraday watched them for a moment, then he reached under his anorak and turned off the recorder.
Wayte had followed his every movement. The rueful smile had disappeared.
“Bastard,” he said softly.
“I’ve turned it off, Harry, not on. You want to check?”
“Bastard,” he repeated.
Faraday studied him a moment, then shrugged. He was doing this man a big favour. Whether he chose to see it that way was his problem.
“I went down to the Sally Port the other night and had a little chat to the manager. He remembers you coming in on Saturday, Harry. You wanted to know about the occupant of room six on Wednesday last. You made it official and so he told you. Guy called Graham Wallace, he said. Gave you his home address, car registration, credit card details, the lot. That was a bit over the top, Harry. All Mackenzie really needed was the name plus the fact that I’d called in to see him.” Faraday took a last look at the dunlin, then patted Wayte on the arm. “You’ve got my mobile number, Harry. Give me a ring.”
Faraday was back in his office at Kingston Crescent, waiting for a chance to see Willard, when his mobile began to ring. He checked the number. Harry Wayte.
“Harry?”
“Me. Listen, you alone?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve had a bit of a think about this morning. Fact is, mate, I’m up to here with it.”
“With what?”
“The poxy job. I’m binning it. Early retirement. I’ll be doing the paperwork this afternoon.”
“Harry’ Faraday had pushed his chair back from the desk ‘are you sure you’ve thought this through?”
“Yeah…But listen, Joe, the way I see it is this.” He began to talk about his current caseload, how few of the jobs were going anywhere, and as he did so Faraday was doing the sums. He and Wayte, both DIs, were on the same pay grade. By handing in his ticket six months early, Faraday estimated Wayte would be kissing goodbye to 20,000 worth of commutation. When Wayte paused for breath, Faraday went through the sums with him. In fairness, it was the least he could do.
Wayte listened, then cut Faraday short.
“Joe, I’m not deaf. I heard what you said this morning. Twenty grand? What makes you think I can’t make that up elsewhere?”
Faraday stared at his mobile.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me. We never had this conversation but twenty grand’s fuck all in some circles, as you well know.” He began to laugh. Then the phone went dead.
Willard’s office was across the corridor.
“Joe.” The Det-Supt barely looked up from his PC. “You talked to Wayte?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Faraday settled himself at the conference table. Willard finally joined him. For a big man, Faraday thought, he looked strangely diminished, even forlorn.
“So how did it go?”
“Nothing actionable. He’ll fight the inquiry all the way.”
“Nothing?” Willard was frowning. “I thought you told me he’d blown Tumbril?”
“He has. That’s exactly what he’s done.”
“To Mackenzie?”
“I assume so.”
“Assume so? What kind of dog wank is that?”
Willard rarely stooped to canteen language. He was plainly under immense pressure.
Faraday leaned forward, taking the chance to explain exactly what had happened over the last twenty-four hours. How he’d isolated that single phrase about Mackenzie on the tape from the Solent Palace. How the phrase had to have come from a Tumbril meeting. How he’d shrunk the suspect list to just four names. And what had emerged from last night’s visit to Joyce’s place.
“So she’s been shagging Harry Wayte?”
“Yes.”
“Fucking hell. And giving him all our secrets?”
“They talk. Shagging isn’t a crime. Neither is conversation.”
“It bloody well is when it goes straight to Mackenzie.”
“That’s not Joyce’s fault.”
“Of course it is, Joe. She signed an undertaking about Tumbril. By talking to Harry, she broke it. She’s either stupid or guilty. You’re telling me she trusts this man?”
“She’s in love with him. It’s often the same thing… As we all know.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Nothing, sir. But you know it and I know it. Get really serious about someone and the rest of it goes out of the window.”
“The rest of it being Tumbril?”
“Yes.”
“What about Wayte? What’s his line?”
“He wants early retirement. Insists, in fact.”
“He’s copping out?”
“Yes. It’s the white flag. He’s jacking it in.”
Willard brooded about this news for a moment. Then he looked up at Faraday again.
“So what does he have to say about Mackenzie?”
“Nothing. He denies everything. He’s insisting he’s never said a word to Mackenzie and it’s up to PSD to prove otherwise. He’ll take them to the wire.”
“And there’s absolutely no hard evidence that ties him to Mackenzie?”
“None. Joyce admits she discussed Tumbril with him.”
“About what? Specifically?”
“About a booking at the Sally Port. Room six. Graham Wallace.”
“Last week, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“How the fuck did she know about that?”
“I…” Faraday felt about twelve ‘.. . left a room service receipt in the car from the afternoon I was with Wallace. Joyce happened to see it. Thought I was over the side. Passed it on as gossip. Like you do.”
“Great. Wonderful. The receipt had Wallace’s name on it?”
“No, sir, just the room number.”
“So how did Joyce tie the receipt to Wallace?”
“Wayte fronted up at the hotel. Sat the manager down and did the business.”
“As a copper?”
“As a DI. Warrant card, the lot.”
“You know that?”
“I talked to the manager last night.”
“Got a statement off him?”
“No…but it’s there for the taking.”
“Thank Christ for that. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“The tape from this morning?”
“Useless. Packed up halfway through. Technical fault.”
Willard nodded. Back at his desk, he put a call through to the Chief Supt. heading the Professional Standards Department. Briefly, he passed on the news about the manager at the Sally Port. PSD should get someone down there sharpish. Harry Wayte,
in his view, was on a nicking. And so was Joyce. The conversation over, he turned to Faraday again.
“That Harry Wayte,” he said softly, ‘is a dead man.”
The restaurant Eadie had chosen for lunch was in the heart of Southsea. Sur-la-Mer offered decent French cuisine at sensible prices with a respectable wine list to go with it. Eadie chose a ‘95 Rioja, a tacit signal to Faraday that all was well with their world. To Faraday, depressed by the last couple of hours, it was the sweetest possible news. Since she’d got back from Kingston Crescent, she’d received word from the people at the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership. They’d watched their copy of the VHS, and although they’d never expected anything quite as hard-hitting, a first viewing indicated that it might make a bit of an impact.
“Impact?” Faraday laughed, light-headed now. “Christ.”
“I talked to one of the girls there. Off the record, she told me they might be up for paying for proper distribution.”
“I thought that was all taken care of?”
“No.” Eadie snapped a bread stick in two. “I’ve only budgeted for Hampshire. This would take it nationwide.”
“Brilliant.” Faraday raised a glass. “Congratulations. You’ve bloody earned it.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes. I’ve had my doubts but…” They touched glasses. “Turns out I was wrong.”
“How does that work?” Eadie couldn’t believe her ears.
“Well…” Faraday was frowning now. “If you think there’s a problem, a real problem, then you have to confront it. In our job we try and do just that but it’s getting harder all the time.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I can give a list as long as your arm. Changes in the law, everyone moving the goalposts, crap morale, whatever. As a cop you start off wanting to make a difference but in the end it grinds you down. In your game, it isn’t like that at all. You answer to no one. You sense a problem out there, you go and tape it. Going gets rough, you ride it out. And in the end, because you won’t take no for an answer, you get a result. Nice.” He raised his glass. “I applaud you.”
“Shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Eadie turned her head away. For once in her life, she was close to tears.
The waiter arrived. Faraday chose lamb shank. Eadie, trying to focus on the menu, finally ordered a cheese omelette. Faraday helped himself to more wine. Time to change the subject.
Cut To Black Page 44
