Cut to Black faw-5

by Graham Hurley

  This job's hard enough as it is. What we don't need is half the force behaving like bloody kids, thinking we've stolen some kind of march on them."

  "We?"

  "Nick Hayder, Imber, now you."

  He broke off, and Faraday found himself nodding. Most policemen were cursed with an acute sense of territory and Harry Wayte was clearly no exception. In his rare moments of leisure, the DI indulged his passion for naval history by building exquisitely crafted model warships.

  Faraday had come across him several times, crouched on the edge of Craneswater boating lake, launching his latest radio-controlled frigate into the thick of battle. Faraday had envied his peace of mind, alone in his private bubble.

  "What are you up to this evening?" Willard was checking his watch.

  "Any plans?"

  "None that I can think of."

  "Good. There's someone I want you meet. You know the jetty alongside Warrior}'

  HMS Warrior had been the navy's first steam-driven ironclad. Fully restored, she dominated the view from the harbour station. The neighbouring jetty lay within the historic dockyard. Faraday was to be there for six o'clock. With luck, they'd be back by nine.

  "Back from where?"

  "Tell you later. Bring something warm." Willard nodded across the row of parked cars towards the High Street. "For now I want you round to the Sally Port Hotel. Room six. There's a guy waiting for you,

  name of Graham Wallace. He's u/c. I've authorised him to brief you. OK?"

  Faraday turned to stare at Willard. Operations like this were trademarked by what the Force Media Unit termed 'a variety of specialist investigative techniques'. Imber had already tallied covert surveillance, phone intercepts, and forensic accounting. So why hadn't anyone mentioned undercover officers?

  "Is that a direct question?" Willard was fingering the leather steering wheel.

  "Yes, sir. It is."

  "Then here's the answer. Imber doesn't know."

  "Doesn't know} Why on earth not?"

  "Because Hayder wanted to keep it tight." The smile was back on Willard's face. "A decision with which I totally agreed."

  The taxi dropped J-J off in the heart of Fratton. He stooped to the window, waiting for his change. When the driver glanced again at the address on his dashboard computer and told him to watch his back, J-J pretended not to understand. All he was doing, he told himself, was running an errand for a friend.

  He set off down Pennington Road, his heart lumping away beneath the thin cotton of his Madness T-shirt. Like it or not, he'd suddenly found himself skewered on what Eadie Sykes liked to call the sharp end.

  The statistics he'd memorised from a thousand magazine articles, the transcripts he'd read from other peoples' research projects, the confessional truths he'd tried to wring from interviewee after potential interviewee, all this carefully filed information had finally boiled down to a single address, 30 Pennington Road. If you wanted to mess with your life, if you wanted to end up in Daniel's state, then this was where you started.

  Parked cars lined both sides of the road. Walking beside them, J-J counted the houses until he got to number 30. Someone, he thought, must have given the front door a good kicking. The splintered panels had been crudely battened and there was a sheet of old plywood nailed over what must have been a square of glass. There was no number on the door and he had to pause a moment, rechecking the houses on either side, before he ventured a knock.

  Being deaf, he never knew how loud a knock he was making. Normally, this wouldn't matter. When it came to handicap people were amazingly forgiving but on this occasion his nerve ends told him he needed to get it right. Too soft, and no one would hear. Too loud, too aggressive, and God knows what might happen.

  J-J closed his eyes a moment, swallowing hard, wondering whether it wasn't too late to beat a retreat. Daniel, back in Old Portsmouth, had warned him about the guys in number 30. The word he'd used was rough.

  Rough, he'd said, but OK. OK meant they delivered. Rough, as the taxi driver had pointed out, meant watch your step.

  Nothing happened after the first knock. Shivering now, J-J reached out again then froze as someone pulled the door open. A face appeared.

  Unshaven. Pierced eyebrows. Nose stud. And young, younger even than J-J himself.

  "Yeah?"

  J-J stood rooted to the pavement, suddenly oblivious to the rain. For the first time in his life he didn't know what to do, what signal to send, what expression to adopt. Then he saw the dog. It was a black pit bull, lunging out of the gloom inside. A length of rope tied it to one of the bannisters at the foot of the stairs and every time it threw itself towards the open door the bannister bowed.

  J-J was terrified of dogs, the legacy of a long-ago encounter with a neighbour's alsatian, and he knew that this one couldn't wait to tear him apart. His instinct told him to turn and leg it. No video, no name on the credits, was worth this.

  "Fucking say something, then, yeah?"

  J-J couldn't take his eyes off the dog. He could smell it now, the rich sour smell of fear. The alsatian had put him in hospital for the night. This one would probably kill him.

  "Fucking deaf are you? Lost yer tongue?"

  At last, J-J managed to summon a response. He'd made Daniel write down his own name and address. Now he unfolded the scrap of paper. A hand shot out and grabbed it. Bitten nails. Heavy rings. A tattoo of some kind, blue dots across the knuckles. The head came up, eyes scanning the street beyond J-J's shoulder.

  "If this is a fucking stitch-up…"

  J-J shook his head with a violence that took him by surprise. No stitching-up. Promise.

  "You know what I'm saying?"

  J-J nodded at the scrap of paper. Trust me. Please.

  "He told you where to find us?"

  Yes.

  "You some kind of friend of his?"

  Yes.

  "He gave you money?"

  Yes.

  The door opened wider and J-J stepped inside. The smell of the dog was overwhelming, the animal more frenzied than ever at this sudden intrusion, and J-J kept his distance, his back against the wall, praying that the bannister would hold.

  Someone else appeared from a room at the back, boxer shorts, tattoo on his neck, and a red number 9 football shirt with Carling scrolled across the front. There was a brief conversation, an exchange of grins, a nod. The face at the door gave the dog a kick, then turned back to J-J, his hand extended, palm up. Gimme. J-J produced the 50 note. The face wanted more. Out came the two twenties. More still.

  J-J shook his head, gestured helplessly, nothing left, then he felt a sharp crack as his head hit the wall. Hands dived into the pockets of his jeans, searching for the rest, and he shut his eyes, forcing himself to submit, to go limp, praying that this nightmare would end.

  Finally, a handful of coins richer, they left him alone. He backed towards the front door, away from the dog, uncertain what was supposed to happen next. Street prices in Portsmouth had never been cheaper.

  Everyone was telling him so. 90 should keep Daniel going for a couple of days, nine wraps at least. So where were they?

  The face stepped past him and pulled the front door open. For a second or two, J-J was tempted to resist, to protest, to demand their end of the deal, but then he felt the sweet chillness of the street, and he was out in the rain again, gladder than he could imagine. The face was back inside, the mouth framing a message for his rich friend. Later, he was saying. Tell him we'll be round later.

  Parked three cars up the street, DC Paul Winter was trying to work out how many shots they'd taken.

  "Six." Jimmy Suttle was studying the panel on the back of the camera.

  "Four when he first turned up. Two just now."

  "Full face?"

  "A couple at least. We should pull him now. He has to be carrying.

  Has to be."

  "Leave it." Winter was watching the tall, awkward figure hurrying away down the street. Last time he'd seen Faraday's son, the boy had g
ot himself mixed up with a bunch of young lunatics from Somers-town. A couple of years later, he'd evidently graduated to Class A narcotics.

  "No?" Suttle had started to open the car door. "The guy's on a nicking. That wasn't a social call."

  "You're right, son. Give me the camera."

  "Why?"

  "Because one of us has to stay here."

  "And me?"

  "I'd move sharpish if I were you." Winter nodded towards the end of the street. "Follow him and bell me."

  "Follow him? I thought we were into bodies? Scalps?"

  "We are." Winter was examining the camera. "Do you know who that boy belongs to?"

  Faraday made his way to the Sally Port Hotel, resisting the temptation to enquire about Graham Wallace at the tiny reception desk. Had this latest rabbit from Willard's hat been in residence long? Did Tumbril have a permanent booking on room 6?

  Climbing the carpeted stairs to the first floor, Faraday couldn't rid himself of the image of Nick Hayder, unconscious in his hospital bed, helpless in a cat's cradle of monitor leads and transfusion lines.

  Managing an investigation this complex, trying to remember who was supposed to know what, would have been enough to drive any detective to the edge. No wonder he'd felt under siege.

  A soft knock at room 6 drew an instant response. Faraday found himself looking at a tall, well-built man in his late twenties. He was wearing an expensive shirt tucked loosely into a pair of well-cut dark trousers. The silk tie, loosened at the collar, was a swirl of reds laced with a vivid turquoise. Despite the laugh lines around his eyes and the tiny gold ring in one ear, he looked tense.

  "You are?"

  "Joe Faraday."

  "Come in. Graham Wallace." He had the briefest handshake.

  Faraday stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The desk beneath the window was spread with paperwork and a linen jacket hung on the back of the chair. Beside the bed, a pair of Gucci loafers.

  "Tea? There's one bag left."

  "No thanks." Faraday eyed the empty packet of biscuits beside the kettle. "I could use a sandwich, though."

  "Ring down. They'll bring something up." Wallace stepped across to the phone and dialled a number, then handed it to Faraday. Faraday ordered two tuna salad sandwiches, adding he'd pay for them on the way out.

  When he'd put the phone down, Wallace gestured towards the empty chair.

  "I'm sorry about Nick." He had a flat London accent. "Your guvnor said you were mates."

  "That's right." Faraday nodded. "And we still are."

  There was a moment of silence while the men eyed each other, then Faraday sank into the chair. u/c officers were notoriously wary, often more paranoid than the targets they were tasked to sting. Their very survival frequently depended on the lowest possible exposure to fellow officers.

  "How tight did Nick keep all this?" Faraday gestured towards the desk.

  "Only it would be helpful to know."

  "Very tight. The only guys I ever deal with are Nick and a handler from Special Ops, Terry McNaughton."

  "What about Willard?"

  "Your govnor?" Wallace glanced up towards the door. "Never met him till just now. He says he's filling in for Nick."

  "I thought that was my job?"

  "It is. That's what he came to tell me."

  "Why didn't Special Ops pass the message?"

  "Good question."

  "Did you ask him? Willard?"

  "Of course I did."

  "And?"

  "He said he was SIO on the job so there was no way he wouldn't know about me. Thought face-to-face was better than a phone call from Special Ops."

  "And you?"

  "Me?" He offered Faraday a thin smile. "A phone call from Special Ops would have done just fine."

  Faraday nodded. Special Ops was a tiny department of the Hantspol intelligence empire that supervised the deployment of u/c officers.

  Terry McNaughton would be the handler charged with running Wallace, sharing the debrief with Nick Hayder after each new instalment of the Tumbril story.

  "You could help me here," Faraday said slowly.

  "How?"

  "By telling me exactly the way it's gone so far. There's no point me trying to snow you. Twenty-four hours ago I was looking at a pretty much empty desk. Now this."

  "No one's briefed you?"

  "Willard's handed me the file. I've talked to the team. This isn't a three-day event."

  "You're right." Wallace appeared to be on the verge of saying something else, then shrugged and lit a small, thin cheroot before settling himself full-length on the bed. "Where do you want me to start?"

  Faraday hesitated. In cases like these, Nick Hayder and Terry McNaughton would deliberately limit the background knowledge shared with the u/c. The last thing they wanted was Wallace in conversation with the target unintentionally revealing more than he should have known.

  "Nick and your handler would have sorted a first meeting."

  "That's right. We met in London."

  "When was that?"

  "Before Christmas. Second week in December."

  "What did they tell you?"

  "They said they were mounting a long-term op against a drugs target, major dealer. Full flag, level three. Bloke called Mackenzie. The way Nick told it, this Mackenzie was into some serious business. Nick said he'd been pouring washed drugs money into all kinds of local investments bars, restaurants, property, hotels, all the usual blinds.

  Everything was sweet, ticking away, lots of nice little earners, but there was something missing. Nick called it profile."

  Faraday nodded. He'd heard Imber use the same word. Mackenzie, he'd explained drily, wasn't just interested in owning half of Pompey. He wanted more than that. He wanted to be Mr. Portsmouth, to have his name up there in lights. King of the City.

  "So?"

  "So my job was to make it hard for him to get that profile. Nick said he was after a particular property, really hot for it, a place that would give him everything he'd ever wanted. According to Nick, he was already halfway there. I'm the bloke that comes in with a counter-bid."

  "And the property?"

  "No one's told you?"

  "No. That's why I'm asking."

  "Right." Wallace was studying the end of his cheroot. "It's Spit Bank Fort."

  "You're serious?"

  "Absolutely."

  "It's inhabited?"

  "Yes. I've been out there. There's a German woman in charge, Gisela Mendel. She's running some kind of language school."

  "And she's in on this? Or is the place really for sale?"

  "I've no idea."

  "That means no."

  "That means I've no idea."

  There was a knock on the door. Faraday got to his feet. A woman gave him a plate of thick-cut tuna sandwiches and told him she'd left the bill at reception. Back in his chair, attacking the sandwiches, Faraday tried to puzzle his way through this latest development.

  Spit Bank was one of three Victorian sea forts guarding the approaches to Portsmouth Harbour. Half a mile out to sea from Southsea beach, it had been built to keep the French at arm's length. If Nick was serious about Mackenzie's thirst for profile, it was the perfect choice: a stubby granite thumb the size of a modest castle. Take a walk along the se afront and you couldn't miss it.

  "So you've come in as a rival bidder?"

  "That's right. As far as I can gather, Mackenzie opened negotiations after Christmas."

  "At what price?"

  "I haven't a clue. The asking price is one and a quarter mil and she's definitely been negotiating him up, but I don't know where the bidding stands right now."

  "And you?"

  "I came in about a fortnight ago. 900,000 contingent on a full survey." He smiled. "Mackenzie can't believe it."

  "How does he know?"

  "Gisela told him."

  "And you've talked to Mackenzie?"

  "Twice. Both times on the phone."

  "He called you
?"

  "For sure, straight after he hassled Gisela for my number." Wallace rolled off the bed a moment, reaching for an ashtray, then lay back again. "He thought he'd squared the woman away, nice clear run.

  Believe me, I'm the last guy he needs around. Nine hundred grand? You must be off your fucking head?

  Wallace's take on Mackenzie's Pompey accent was faultless, and Faraday found himself grinning. The dim outlines of Nick Hayder's sting were at last beginning to emerge.

  "You think he'll try and take care of you?"

  "One way or another." He nodded. "Yeah."

  "How?"

  "No idea. The perfect end game has him bunging me a kilo or two of charlie but don't hold your breath."

  "How would that work?"

  "No one's explained the legend?"

  "No." Once again, Faraday shook his head.

  Every undercover officer has a legend, an assumed identity which must take him over. The best of them, Faraday knew, were indivisible from their new personalities. They lived, ate and slept what they'd become.

  Graham Wallace was playing a twenty-nine-year-old property developer.

  He'd made his fortune with a hefty commission on a 98 million shopping plaza in Oman and was back in the UK to enjoy the spoils. He had an office in Putney, a flat overlooking the river, and a Porsche Carrera for his expeditions out of town. A couple of investments had already caught his eye. One of them was a Tudor manor house in Gloucestershire he planned to turn into a health spa. Spit Bank Fort was another.

  "As far as Mackenzie's concerned, I'm thinking five-star hotel — gourmet cooking, de luxe accommodation, helicopter platform on the roof for transfers from Heathrow, the works."

  "That's huge money."

  "You're right. But that's the point. I told him about the Cotswold place, too. It's got fifteen acres. They're asking three mil five."

  "Why the detail?"

  "Nick wanted him to check me out. The Cotswold place is part of the legend. The bloke that owns it is on side Nick warned him to expect a call from Mackenzie."

  "And?"

  "Mackenzie phoned him a couple of days ago. They had a long conversation and the bloke finally admitted he'd turned my offer down.

  Said he'd made calls of his own and the Oman story didn't check out.