Faraday nodded, wondering quite how far to take this conversation.
Hayder was struggling again. At last, he settled down.
"You know what the real problem's been?" His voice seemed suddenly stronger. "Other people."
"In the job, you mean?"
"Yeah. Compared to our lot, Mackenzie's a doddle. Criminals I can cope with. Coppers I can't."
"Bent coppers?"
"Coppers with gripes. Coppers not getting enough at home. Coppers who think they should be running the bloody force. Something like Tumbril gives them the chance to have a grizzle." He nodded. "Big time."
"So how come I never knew about it?"
"Because you were too busy doing a proper job." He squeezed his eyes shut a moment. "Pass me that drinks thing?"
There was a plastic cup with a straw on the bedside cabinet. Faraday held it while Hayder took a sip. Then his head was back on the pillow again, a thin film of sweat across his forehead.
"TCU are really pissed off." Come what may, Hayder was going to complete this conversation. "They think we've stolen their baby, and you know what? They're fucking right."
"TCU? You mean Harry Wayte's lot?"
"Yeah."
"You want to give me names?"
"I haven't got names. It's a team thing. They're good blokes really but they hate competition."
"And you think that's — ' Faraday hunted for the word 'unhelpful?"
"I think it's a pain in the arse." He paused for breath, turning his head on the pillow. "You see that pretty one over there?" His eyes led Faraday to the nurse he'd noticed earlier. She was closer now, dispensing tablets from the nearby drugs trolley. "She's the one who normally sorts me out. Her name's Julie. She can't wait to put me in bloody nappies. Eh, Jules?"
Faraday watched the nurse return his smile. Already, he was aware that he'd pushed Nick Hayder way too far. Another ten minutes of Tumbril, and he'd be back on the critical list.
"Listen, Nick." He bent down towards the pillow. "Just one more thing."
"Go on."
"What happened to put you in here?"
Hayder gazed up at him.
"Haven't a clue, mate," he whispered at last.
"You can't remember anything? No incident? No details? No recall at all?"
"Nothing." A tiny, painful shake of the head. "I thought you might know."
Suttle took Trudy Gallagher to a pub in Buriton, a picturesque commuter village tucked beneath the northern folds of the South Downs. Thursday night in early spring, the pub was nearly empty. Suttle and Trudy settled themselves in a corner next to the blazing log fire. A couple of pints and four Bacardi Breezers developed into a meal, and Trudy insisted on buying a bottle of champagne to go with it. By now, to Suttle's delight, she was well pissed.
"We celebrating?" Suttle poured her a second glass. "Or what?"
"Yeah." Trudy eyed him over the candle. "Or at least I am."
"Why's that, then?"
"You don't want to know…" She ducked her head and started to giggle.
"Try me."
"No way. You'll think I'm completely dumb. Real wuss. Let's talk about you. Winter said you're married."
"He lies."
"Have been married?"
"No way. Who'd want a wife at my age?"
"What about your mum and dad?"
Suttle blinked. Trudy was drunker than he'd thought.
"What about them?"
"They still married?"
"Yeah. My dad's dotty about her. Always has been. He's like a kid when she's around. Can't keep his hands to himself."
"Must be nice. Having parents like that."
"I never really thought about it." Suttle speared a chip. "You?"
"It's just been me and Mum."
"Always?"
"Since I can remember, yeah."
"What about your dad?"
"I never knew him. Mum's had loads of blokes but no one who'd own up.".
"To what?"
"Me." She pulled a face and reached for her glass. "Here's to us."
The barmaid collected the empty plates and handed Suttle the menu.
Instead of dessert, Trudy settled for a rum and Coke, insisting on another pint for Suttle. Steak and kidney pudding seemed to have soaked up a little of the alcohol, and when Suttle asked about who she was seeing just now she took the question seriously.
"It's been mad." She put her head on one side and began to twist a curl of hair around her finger. "Last year or so, I've been like living with this older guy. His name's Mike. I've known him for years, friend of my mum's. My mum and I have never really, you know, got on, and there came a point where I had to move out, just had to.
Mike knew about all that. He was round our place all the time. Then he just phoned up one day and said come and live with me."
"Just like that?
"Yeah. I didn't know what to say, not at first. He was married once, years ago, but he's been divorced for ages and he's got a really nice place up in Waterlooville Jacuzzi, double garage, big garden, the lot.
So…" She shrugged. "I said yes."
Suttle had heard this story from Winter, not in such detail but enough to suggest that Mike Valentine wasn't just lucky in the motor trade.
"You moved in with him? Like… properly?"
"You mean did I shag him?" She shook her head. "No."
"Did that upset him?"
"Not at all. In fact, the one who was upset was me. After a time I really got to like him. More than that, actually. I fancied the pants off him. He had real style, know what I mean? And he was funny, too.
Not only that but he was really kind. Looked after me. I liked that."
"Did you-' Suttle shrugged 'make any moves?"
"Loads. I was so uncool about it. He could have helped himself any time, night or day. I was the only girl in Waterlooville sunbathing naked in April. Anything. Anything to turn him on."
"But it didn't happen?"
"Not once. Then I decided he was gay because it made me feel better, only that wasn't true either because it turned out he was shagging my mum."
"When did that happen?"
"Fuck knows. I only found out a couple of months ago. I called round home to pick up a CD and they were at it in the bedroom. I couldn't believe it, just couldn't believe it. That's why I went crying my eyes out to Dave Pullen. The older man again, see? Thought he might be able to help, give me advice. Fat fucking chance."
Suttle nodded, remembering Trudy with Winter in the Gumbo Parlour at Gunwharf. No wonder she'd been so lippy about her mother.
"So where are you living now?"
"Back home."
"With your mum} After all that?"
"Yeah."
"How come?"
"Can't say." Her face had suddenly brightened again. "Except that it's fine now."
"Just like that?"
"Yeah." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that. You get yourself in a state, get really worked up, then you realise you'd got it all completely wrong. Me? Total wuss."
The drinks arrived. Trudy diluted the rum with a splash of Coke and held the glass under her nose. Then she looked up.
"You know how people talk about life? How it can be so funny sometimes? Only I'm just learning." She tipped the glass to her lips and took a tiny sip. "Something else, too."
"What's that?"
"You're really, really nice." She paused, then looked at her watch.
"Amount you've drunk, there's no way you're driving me home."
"You want a cab?"
"No." She reached for his hand across the table. "I want you. Where's this place of yours?"
"Across the green. Last cottage on the left."
"And your mate?"
"In London all week. Training course."
"Cool." She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. "Think you can manage to fuck me?"
By eight o'clock, the demo was beginning to break up. The column of protesters had surged through the shopping pr
ecinct in Commercial Road, picking up support en route and finally emerging at the roundabout that funnelled rush-hour traffic onto the motorway. Keen to keep the demonstration on the move, the police had stopped three lanes of cars, hurrying the column on towards Whale Island. To the delight of the veterans at the head of the march, the forest of placards had stirred the odd toot of support from waiting drivers, but Eadie — hunting for pictures amongst the blank-faced commuters was only too aware that the bulk of these people simply wanted to get home. Portsmouth, after all, was a naval city martial by instinct and once the fighting had started, a protest like this smacked of treason. Our boys and girls were in harm's way. Now was the time to get behind them.
Whale Island was a mile north, beyond the continental Ferry Port. The protesters swung along, bellowing slogans, punching the air. George Bush was a madman. Blair was a poodle. The Americans had blood on their hands. By now, Eadie knew she'd done the event justice. She had maybe half an hour of recorded material, more if you included the handful of snatched interviews, but the moment the column rounded the final bend before the causeway that fed naval traffic onto Whale Island, her heart leapt. A line of helmeted police blocked the path forward. Behind them, half a dozen waiting Transit vans, mesh over the windows, heavy metal visors to protect the windscreens. Overhead, the steady drone of the police spotter plane, wing dipped, flying a wide circle as the demonstration came to a halt.
Eadie hurried along the flank of the column, incurring the wrath of a uniformed sergeant who warned her to stay in line. At the front, police and protesters eyed each other over ten metres of tyre-blackened asphalt. The man with the beard was locked in negotiation with the senior officer in charge. Eadie did her best to get close enough to pick up the dialogue but another officer waved her away. Behind her, the chanting was beginning to flag. Finally, the man with the beard turned to the press of bodies and switched on the loudspeaker. There were to be a couple of brief speeches. Then, in what he called a display of solidarity for the Iraqi people, they'd return to the Guildhall Square.
There were murmurs from the crowd. One student yelled an obscenity.
Eadie caught a smirk on the face of a watching PC. Elsewhere in the world a situation like this would be seconds away from kicking off.
Instead, as the first of the speeches got under way, Eadie knew it was all over. There'd be more rants against the evils of American imperialism, more calls for Blair's head, but in essence the demonstration this column of good intentions had hit the buffers. The police, in the shape of a couple of hundred men, had flung down the gauntlet, knowing full well that they'd won.
Won? Half an hour later, as the police chivvied the last of the stragglers back towards the city centre, Eadie fumbled for her mobile.
A couple of hundred metres away, she could still see the security barrier and gatehouse that barred the entry to Whale Island and HMS Excellent. Bathed in a pool of orange light, it seemed to symbolise everything that the Brits in their very orderliness refused to confront.
She paused for a moment, ignoring the attentions of a police Alsatian.
When she dialled Faraday's mobile, she got no further than the answering service. When she tried again, knowing he'd check the caller's number, she heard the same recorded voice. Finally, knowing she had to get the last couple of hours off her chest, she sent a text to J-J: Please tell your dad to call me. Luv. E. XXX. She waited a moment, wondering if they were both at home. Then, when nothing happened, she took a final look at the gatehouse. On the evening breeze, very faint, came the sound of laughter.
Paul Winter was half an hour into his DVD of The Dambusters when his mobile began to ring. The lone figure of Barnes Wallis was wandering away over the Reculver mud flats trying to work out why his bomb wouldn't bounce properly. Winter propped the tumbler of Laphroaig on his lap and reached for his mobile.
"Paul Winter."
A voice he didn't immediately recognise asked him what he was doing. It was a light voice, Pompey accent. Winter studied the caller number. No clues there.
"Who is this?"
"Bazza Mackenzie. Just wondered whether you fancied a chat."
"Now?"
"Whenever. Tonight would be good for me. You know Craneswater at all?
Sandown Road. Green floodlights. Number thirteen. Can't miss it."
The line went dead and Winter was left staring at the television.
Barnes Wallis was back at his drawing board, designing a bigger bomb.
Chapter thirteen
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 21.12
Winter took a taxi to Southsea. The driver dropped him halfway down Sandown Road, scribbling a phone number for the return fare. Across the street, a substantial two-storey house was bathed in a lurid shade of green, an effect which gave the place a strangely unearthly look, as if it had just touched down from another planet. If you wanted to announce your arrival in this quietly prosperous enclave, thought Winter, then this was definitely the way to do it.
The driver shot Winter a look and then handed him the receipt.
"You should come by here on Mondays," he said. "Pink's even worse."
Winter watched the taxi disappear down the street. The house was protected by a sturdy brick wall, well over head height, with a timber trellis on top. Sliding steel gates barred a drive-in entrance, and there was another access door further down the street. The door, which was locked, looked new.
Winter fingered the button on the entry phone buzzed twice.
"Who is it?" A woman's voice.
"Paul Winter."
"Wait a moment."
There was a longish silence. Through the entry phone from somewhere in the depths of the house, a dog began to bark.
"He says to come in."
The door opened automatically, swinging inwards with a soft, electronic whine. For a moment Winter was tempted to applaud, then he spotted the CCTV camera, mounted on a pole beside the brick path that led towards the house. The floodlights with their green gels were set in tiny traps, recessed into the surrounding lawn, and Winter began to feel slightly nauseous. At first he put it down to the third glass of Laphroaig but a glance at the backs of his hands flesh the colour of putty told him otherwise. A couple of minutes out here, and you'd think you'd strayed into the fun fair. The Chamber of Horrors, maybe.
Or the Ghost Train.
The camera tracked Winter as he headed down the path. The front door opened, and Winter found himself face to face with Mackenzie's wife.
"How was Chichester?" he said pleasantly. "Buy anything nice?"
Marie stepped aside to let him in, saying nothing. She was wearing a dressing gown belted at the waist. Barefoot, she smelled of the shower.
The interior of the house had been recently gutted, walls torn down to create an enormous open space. A glass conservatory had been added, deepening the living area, and the linen blinds glowed aquarium-green against the wash of the lights outside. A crescent of leather sofa faced a wide screen TV. The TV was tuned to a news channel, shots of heavy armour churning through the desert. A plate of salad on the low table beside the sofa had barely been touched.
"He's in the den. Said to go through. Second on the left."
Marie nodded at a door in the far corner of the room. The door was heavy, new again, and swung closed the moment Winter stepped through. A carpeted hall was flanked with more doors. After the yawning emptiness of the living area, it felt suddenly intimate. Decent watercolours harbour scenes on the walls. A golf putter and half a dozen yellow balls littering the long run of carpet.
"In here." The summons came from an open door on the left. Winter stepped into a softly-lit room dominated by a big, antique desk. Tiny television monitors were racked on the wall beside the desk and Winter recognised the path to the front gate on one of them.
"Expecting company, Baz?"
Mackenzie ignored the dig. He'd bought the latest motion-sensitive software. Anything that moved in the garden, he'd be the first to know. At two grand off t
he internet, he regarded this latest toy as a steal.
"You should be here when we get a bit of wind in the trees." He nodded at the monitor screens. "Whole lot goes bonkers."
Winter unbuttoned his coat and sank into one of the two armchairs. The last time he'd seen Bazza Mackenzie was a couple of years back at aCID boxing do on South Parade pier. They'd shared a bottle of champagne while two young prospects from Leigh Park belted each other senseless.
"Lost a bit of weight, Baz. Working out?"
"Stress, mate, and too many bloody salads. Marie started going to a health farm last year. Worst three grand I ever spent. You know why we moved here?"
"Tell me."
"It's at least a mile to the nearest decent chippy. She measured it in the Merc then phoned me up and told me to put the deposit down. You'd think it would be views, wouldn't you? And the beach? And all these posh neighbours? Forget it. We live in a chip-free zone. Welcome to paradise."
Winter laughed. Unlike many other detectives, he'd always had a sneaking regard for Bazza Mackenzie. The man had a lightness of touch, a wit, an alertness, that went some way to explaining his astonishing commercial success. You could see it in his face, in his eyes. He watched you, watched everything, ready with a quip or an offer or a put-down, restless, voracious, easily bored.
In the wrong mood, as dozens could testify, Bazza Mackenzie could be genuinely terrifying. Nothing daunted him, least of all the prospect of physical injury, and Winter had seen the photographic evidence of the damage he could do to men twice his size. But catch him in the right mood and you couldn't have a nicer conversation. Bazza, as Winter had recently told Suttle, had a heart the size of a planet.
Whatever he did, for whatever reason, he was in there one thousand per cent, total commitment.
"What's this, then? New chums?"
Winter was inspecting a gaudy mess of colour snaps pinned to a cork wallboard, one image overlapping with the next, briefly-caught moments in the cheerful chaos of Mackenzie's social life. One of the latest photos featured four middle-aged men posing on a putting green. They all looked pleased with themselves but it was Mackenzie who was holding the flag.
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