Cut to Black faw-5

by Graham Hurley

  Secretan began with a brief update on what he called the developing situation. He spoke with a soft, West Country burr which did nothing to mask his irritation at the recent turn of events. After a period of relative calm, outsiders had decided to rock Pompey's little boat. Some of them, as everyone knew, came from Merseyside. Attempts at repatriation had so far failed completely. Others, according to Met Intelligence, were expected any day from Brixton and other areas of south London. These guys, largely West Indian, were driven by the prospects of selling into a largish and quickly expanding market. The size of the policing challenge, said Secretan, was best expressed in simple figures. The price of an ounce of cocaine in London was currently 1700. In Portsmouth, dealers would expect a 10 per cent premium. Supply and demand. Obvious.

  There was a murmur of agreement around the table. None of this was news, but Secretan, in his understated way, had summed it up rather well. He turned to Willard. They were all busy men, and time was precious, but it was important to avoid investigative chaos one inquiry overlapping with another and to this end he'd asked the Det-Supt to establish a clear demarcation in terms of ongoing operations. The last thing anyone needed just now was dozens of blokes getting in each other's way.

  Willard nodded. Faraday knew already that he rated Secretan, a rare accolade from someone as driven and unforgiving as Willard, and Faraday sensed at once that the two men were in virtual lockstep.

  "We'll start with Nick Hayder," he said. "We've had a decent squad on what happened to Nick, and there's no question in my mind that it was drugs related. What Nick was doing there that night is still a mystery, and to be frank we might never get to the bottom of it. It might have been pure chance, though knowing Nick I doubt it. Either way, a senior police officer is seriously injured, seriously ill, and that's totally unacceptable. Thanks to some quality detective work from Cathy Lamb's squad, we've had a bit of a breakthrough. Cathy?"

  Cathy Lamb took up the story. A couple of her guys had traced a stolen Cavalier. Early indications from forensic tests on the vehicle suggested that the car might well have been used to run down Nick Hayder. A Merseyside youth hospitalised in a separate incident had been DNA-tied to the car and was now under armed guard in the QA hospital.

  "For whose benefit?" It was Secretan.

  "Ours," Cathy conceded at once. "And his, too."

  "So are we suggesting the boy in hospital is down for Nick Hayder?"

  "Yes, sir. But a witness who saw the car arrive puts another youth in the front. And we've yet to find him."

  "Leads?"

  "A few. Nothing that excites me."

  Secretan nodded at the DCI by his side, who made a note. Then he looked across at Willard.

  "So who's driving the Hayder inquiry? Major Crimes? Cathy's squad?"

  "Cathy. Under my supervision."

  "You're SIO?" — ,-vp arnuncj are Cathy's."

  "Fine. So where does that leave the Major Crimes Team? As far as this discussion is concerned?"

  It was a pertinent question and Faraday bent forward to be sure of catching Willard's answer. In reality, of course, Tumbril was a Major Crimes operation, albeit at arm's length.

  "Nowhere, sir." Willard was looking down the table at Secretan. "If you want a list of ongoing operations, I'll happily supply one. Some are drug related but none of them need to be part of this debate."

  Faraday smiled to himself. It was a consummate response, the perfect finesse, and Faraday wondered whether Willard would make a note of it for later use. In two years on the Major Crimes Team he'd never had Willard down as much of a politician but now he began to wonder.

  Secretan had returned to Cathy Lamb. At his prompting, she confirmed the beginnings of a serious turf war. Getting some kind of result against two of the Scousers would doubtless thin their ranks but every last shred of incoming intelligence suggested that the certainty of fat profits spoke louder than anything else. Her guys had their thumbs in the dyke but the market, in the end, would swamp their best efforts at containment. If not the Scousers, then the West Indians. If not them, then any number of a dozen other tribes. Albanians? Turks? Chinese?

  Russians? In this game, said Cathy, you could take your pick.

  Down the table, a figure stirred. It was Harry Wayte.

  "Cathy's right," he said softly. "We got word this morning of a major cocaine shipment down from town. Hand on my heart, I can't attest it.

  Ask me where it's gone, I can't tell you. But demand is through the roof. And where there's demand, there's supply." He paused. "I know I sound prehistoric but this used to be a city I understood. We knew what we were in for. Weekends could be lively and drugs were part of all that, no question, but we knew the major players, talked to them, kept the lid on. Now, it's all turning to rat shit. One day soon, we're going to be wishing the locals had stayed in charge."

  Willard was leaning forward. He wanted to know about this latest cocaine shipment. What was the strength of the intelligence? Who'd sourced it? Secretan extended a cautionary hand. They could discuss all that in a moment or two. For now, he was keen for Harry Wayte to continue.

  Harry shrugged.

  "There's nothing more to say, sir. Except it's sometimes better the devil you know."

  "You mean Mackenzie?"

  "Of course. To stay in the game nowadays, blokes like him have to up the violence. That's why it's all kicked off. But it didn't used to be that way. Not when they had the city to themselves."

  "And you think that's a shame?"

  "I think it made our job easier."

  "Even when they were turning over millions of quids' worth? Flaunting it?"

  "Yes. Because that's the price you pay for peace and quiet. Look at us now. We wouldn't be here, around this table, unless all that had broken down. You're asking me what to do about it? To be frank, I haven't a clue. Worse still, I don't think anyone else has. We're chasing our tails. I'm sorry, but it's true."

  Heads around the table had turned to Secretan. To Faraday's surprise, he seemed completely at peace at the direction this meeting had suddenly taken. Where many men in his position would have dismissed Harry Wayte out of hand, there was absolutely no sense that his authority was being challenged. On the contrary, he seemed to view Harry's contribution as genuinely worthwhile.

  "Geoff?" He was looking at Willard. "What's your take on this?"

  "Me?" Willard gazed at his empty notepad a moment, then looked up at Harry Wayte. "I think you're talking absolute bollocks."

  Chapter fifteen

  FRIDAY, 21 MARCH 2003, 10.30

  The mortuary at St. Mary's Hospital occupies a remote corner of the sprawling inner-city site. Mid morning, sunshine spills onto the oblong of patched tarmac reserved for staff cars and undertakers' vans.

  Eadie Sykes emerged from a side door and leaned back against the brickwork, grateful for the thin warmth.

  No briefing, she now knew, could have prepared her for the realities of the post-mortem. Expecting some kind of variation on the operations she'd attended, she'd found herself in a butcher's shop. Her close-ups of the scalpel slicing through Kelly's waxy flesh, of the bile-green and vivid yellows of his dripping intestines, of the splintering crunch as the steel rib shears chopped through bone, had been bad enough. But what had followed once the belly and chest cavities had been exposed was to Eadie deeply shocking.

  She'd often told herself she had a rare tolerance for life's uglier surprises. She could cope with the aftermath of motorway pile-ups and hard-core footage from combat zones. But the very deadness of what she'd just witnessed, the knowledge that any of us might one day become the carefully emptied carcass on the stainless steel slab, filled her with dread.

  The air-conditioning vents were on the roof above her head and a breath of wind brought with it the sickly sweet smell of the next postmortem.

  People like Pauline Schreck live with this smell every day of their working lives, she thought. Even in your sleep, a smell like that would never leave you. She shudde
red, heading for her car. She stored the camera in the boot and retrieved her mobile from the glove box Amongst the stored messages was a number she didn't immediately recognise.

  Eager to get out of this place as quickly as she could, she reversed the Suzuki into a tight turn and threaded her way back through the maze of buildings. Only when she'd emerged onto the main road, waiting for the lights to change, did she key the message tape.

  A male voice, northern accent, wished her a very good morning. He'd driven down late last night. He was staying at the Marriott Hotel and he'd appreciate half an hour of her time. Might there be room in her schedule for a coffee? Mid morning? Say half ten? Eadie glanced at her watch. The Marriott was fifteen minutes away, up at the top of the city. Daniel Kelly's father was the last person she trusted herself to meet just now but she knew how important the contact might be.

  When the lights changed, she hesitated for a second. Then she turned left, heading north.

  Jimmy Suttle waited in his car while Winter took a look for himself. A minute later, he was back in the street. Disgust was something Suttle could recognise at twenty metres.

  "Man's an animal." Winter pulled the car door shut behind him and dug in his pocket for a Werther's Original. I told him I'd call the RSPCA.

  Put him out of his misery."

  "What did he say?"

  "Sod all. I think he's losing the will to live."

  "So what do we do?"

  "Untie him. Clean him up. Get him out of there. If Cath wants to put in an OP, some kind of ambush, there's nothing to stop her. The Scousers won't know Pullen's gone."

  "OK." Suttle tried to mask his disappointment. He nodded at the flats across the road. "You want me to give you a hand?"

  "Yeah… but there's something we ought to discuss first."

  "What's that, then?"

  "It's about young Trudy…" Winter pushed back the passenger seat and made himself comfortable. "You want to share anything with me?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like whether or not she was the bird you met yesterday."

  "I told you already."

  "Wrong, son. You told me you met her last night. I'm asking you whether she was the reason you bailed out of the house-to-house. A yes would be fine. For starters."

  It began to dawn on Suttle that Winter was serious. Not just serious, but something else too. Pissed off? He wasn't sure.

  "OK." he said carefully. "She asked for a meet."

  "She asked?"

  "That's right. Phoned up. Fixed a time and a place. Like you do."

  "Any idea why?"

  "She fancies me."

  "Naturally. Any other reason?"

  "She wanted to talk about' Suttle nodded across the road 'him upstairs."

  He explained about how she'd gone to Bazza on the spur of the moment, told him everything, and how worried she was about the consequences.

  "I'm not surprised." Winter nodded down at the mobile. "Give her a ring. Invite her round for a look. Might do our friend the world of good." He paused. "What else?"

  "Nothing else."

  "Except you shagged her."

  "I did, yeah."

  "Ever think that might not have been such a great idea? No, you didn't, did you. Just went right ahead, helped yourself. Look at me, son." Reluctantly, Suttle's head came round. Winter might have been his father. "Keen, was she?"

  "Very."

  "Got tonight planned? The weekend? Somewhere nice? Only if I were you, I'd be thinking abroad, somewhere remote. Patagonia's nice this time of year."

  "What's the problem?" Suttle tried to defend himself. "It just happened. These things do. We had a couple of drinks, got it on. No harm in that, is there?"

  "Plenty, my friend. In case no one else has ever mentioned it, let me have the honour. Screwing the customers is a really crap move, and you're talking to someone who knows. Getting emotionally involved is even worse."

  "Who said I'm emotionally involved?"

  "You went round to Pullen's first thing." Winter nodded at the building across the road. "Social visit, was it? Chance to compare notes? Or had you something else in mind?"

  There was a long silence. Suttle was doing his best to hide his embarrassment.

  "She's a kid," he said at last. "Christ knows what she was doing with a dosser like Pullen."

  "Or Valentine, indeed."

  "No." Suttle shook his head. "That was different. Turns out the thing with Valentine was platonic. They never got it on, much to her disgust."

  "She told you that?" Winter didn't bother to hide his surprise.

  "Yeah, and I believe her, too."

  "So what was in it for him?"

  "Dunno. Maybe he felt sorry for her. Maybe he just liked her, liked her being there, having her around. Ignore the attitude and she can be really sweet, yeah…" He nodded. "Really sweet."

  "Maybe Valentine's gay? Or maybe he's just lost it?"

  "No way." Another shake of the head. Trude says he's been shagging her mum."

  "Misty? Valentine's shagging Misty?" Winter was grinning now.

  "Yeah."

  "Still?"

  "Yeah. As far as I know."

  "Excellent." Winter celebrated with another Werther's, his earlier hunch confirmed. "So where does that leave you?"

  Suttle laughed. "Pretty sorted, if you really want to know."

  "And Trude?"

  "She's talking about going away. It's probably fantasy but she seems to mean it. Mentioned it twice last night."

  "Poor you. Just when things were getting ' "No, no." Suttle grinned at him. "She wants me to go with her."

  "Where?"

  "Fuck knows."

  "How?"

  "Dunno. She says she's due money."

  "Lots of money?"

  "No idea."

  "Are we talking holiday here?"

  "Maybe."

  "Something longer?"

  "Possibly."

  "And?"

  "Well… it's a joke, obviously. She's a nice girl and everything but there's no way."

  "Thank Christ for that."

  "I'm not with you."

  "No, and you won't be if you carry on like this." Winter turned to face him. "Listen, son. You're a bright lad, you cope OK, Christ, I even like you, but you're from way out of town and believe me that makes a difference. There's an etiquette here, things you just don't do in this city, and one of them is Trudy Gallagher. Why? Because Bazza regards her as a daughter, always has done, kith and kin, his own flesh and blood, and the last person he wants screwing the arse off her is anyone in the job. He'd take that personally, believe me."

  "You're telling me Trude is Bazza's daughter? Only that would be news to Trude."

  "I'm telling you nothing. I'm simply the messenger."

  "He told you?"

  "Good as."

  "When?"

  Winter looked at him a moment, then shook his head. He'd said his piece and now was the time to get back upstairs and sort Dave Pullen.

  First, though, he ought to update Cathy Lamb.

  He extended a hand. Suttle shook it. Winter gave a despairing sigh.

  "The mobile, dickhead."

  Faraday was back in his office in the MCT suite when Gisela Mendel rang. He recognised her voice at once, the clipped German accent, and reached for the pad by the phone.

  "It's about the sale on the fort," she said at once. "Your Mr.

  Mackenzie has been on to me again."

  "And?"

  "He says we need to set up a meeting for next week. He wants to bring his solicitor and says I ought to bring mine."

  "What about other bidders?"

  "He doesn't seem to think that'll be a problem."

  "Really?" Faraday was calculating the time line. Mackenzie wanted to have a sort-out with Wallace over the weekend. Whatever he had in mind would presumably clear his path for a solo run at Spit Bank Fort. If Willard and Faraday were looking for proof of Mackenzie's confidence, then this was surely it.

 
"Last time we met, you mentioned a change of circumstances," Faraday said carefully. "Personal circumstances."

  "That's right. My husband's started divorce proceedings."

  "Which means the sale's for real?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Do you have a figure in mind?"

  "Yes."

  "Which you'll table next week?"

  "Obviously."

  "Do you mind telling me what that figure might be?"

  There was a long silence. When Gisela finally answered, her voice had hardened.

  "This is difficult, Mr. Faraday. Until now, as you know, it's been make-believe. I'm not asking for extra information, I don't want to know why I'm playing these games, all I'm saying is the rules have changed. I have to sell the place for real. I have to turn it into money. Of course I'd love 1,200,000 but no one's going to part with that kind of sum, not for Spit Bank. It would be nice if they did but it isn't going to happen. Frankly, given my husband's decision, I'm largely in Mr. Mackenzie's hands."

  "You'll take what he offers?"

  "I'll haggle, obviously, but… yes, I have no choice."

  Faraday sat back. Not once had he thought beyond Mackenzie's impending meet with Wallace. That was the crux of Tumbril, the hinge on the investigative door, the single square on which they'd piled all their chips. What if the operation fell apart? What if by the end of next week Mackenzie had picked up this little piece of Pompey for a song?

  "Have you told Mr. Willard any of this?"

  "No, I tried but he was engaged."

  "Fine, leave it to me." Faraday paused again, struck by another thought. "What happens if Mackenzie's unable to bid?"

  "I don't understand."

  "What if' Faraday knew already that this was a conversation he should never have started 'he suddenly loses interest?"

  "Why on earth should he do that?"

  "I've no idea, but tell me. Imagine the situation. No Mackenzie. And no one else."