Me? I've loved it all until recently, but that's the job's fault, not mine. Pompey's home, Paul. And my missus can't stand all that Spanish sun."
Winter nodded. He understood exactly what Harry meant.
"Cathy Lamb mentioned some intelligence you raised a couple of days ago," he said carefully. "Big cocaine shipment. Wouldn't have any details, would you?"
"Fraid not."
"You don't have the details or you're not up for sharing them?"
"Don't have the details. Couple of my blokes have their ears to the ground. Street prices are down, too. That tells me it's more than a rumour."
"But no names attached?"
"No." He reached for his glass again. "Why?"
"I was just wondering about Bazza."
"No." He shook his huge head. "Definitely not. Bazza's out of the front line now, too much else going on for him, too busy playing the businessman."
"You don't think he's retained an interest?"
"That's different. Fuck knows how you prove it but I'd be amazed if he wasn't staking other guys, keeping it in the family. Where else would he get a return like that? It's simple arithmetic, mate. Give me the back of an envelope and I'll show you the way it works. Big profits.
Zero risk." He took another long pull from his glass. "How come you don't know all this already? I thought you were on Cathy's squad?"
"I am."
"Then what's this about?"
Winter had anticipated the question. For once, he'd barely touched his second pint.
"Does the word Tumbril mean anything to you?"
"Of course it does. Some half-arsed covert, isn't it? Run out of Major Crimes?"
"You tell me. All I hear is gossip."
"That's all I hear but it sounds pretty fucking kosher to me. Problem is, the thing'll never work."
"We're talking Bazza again?"
"Yeah. Right target maybe but these guys are five years too late. The time to nick Mackenzie was when he was down in the trenches, taking a risk or two. Nowadays you'll never get anywhere near the bloke. You should go down the command chain, look for the up-and-coming Bazzas.
They're the blokes to target."
"And you think that would make a difference?"
"Not the slightest. You're the guys who've been chasing round after the Scouse kids, aren't you? It's supply and demand, mate, not rocket science. Take the local blokes off the plot and all you do is open the door to those nutters. It's like Iraq. Say we win this war. Say we kill Saddam. And say the country falls apart afterwards. What'll happen in twelve months time? Everyone will be running around looking for a strongman, someone to sort the Iraqis out, someone to impose a bit of order."
"A Bazza?"
"Yeah, a Bazza. He had this city taped until the Scousers turned up.
Now it's a mess."
"Is that Tumbril's fault? If they've been trying to take him down?"
"Haven't a clue, mate. Who knows, they might even get a result despite everything I say. But that's not going to solve the problem, is it?
Not when kids want to get off their heads all the time. I'm telling you, Paul, it's a dog's breakfast. Supply and demand. The magic of capitalism. Thank Christ I'm out soon."
"So there's fuck-all point even trying?"
"There's fuck-all point thinking you're gonna solve anything. Trying's different. Trying's what we do. Problem with blokes like me is we've tried so bloody hard all our lives that conversations like this really begin to hurt." He nodded, combative now, moist-eyed. "Your age, Paul, it might be different. You're still just young enough to kid yourself you can make a difference."
"I never thought that in my life."
"You didn't? Then why do you bother?"
"Because I enjoy it."
"Well that makes you very rare. Blokes like me, we're stuffed in the end because we really did believe we could make a difference, but then you wake up in the morning and you realise there's absolutely no fucking chance. Number one, the problem's too massive. Number two, we haven't got a clue what to do about it. We're like the military, always fighting the war before last."
"So what's the answer?"
"You're asking me?"
"Yeah."
"You jack it in."
"And the rest of us?"
"No idea, mate." He reached for his glass. "And you know something else? I don't fucking care."
Faraday took a taxi back to the Bargemaster's House. There was a message from Eadie waiting for him on the answer phone She sounded excited, wanted to share something with him, and for a moment he was tempted to ring back. Then he changed his mind and helped himself to a couple of bananas from the fruit bowl.
Outside, on the square of lawn between the house and the towpath, he demolished the second of the bananas before stepping through the squeaking gate and heading north along the path. The tide was high, lapping at the sea wall, and as the slap-slap of the halyards in the dinghy park began to recede, he could hear the honk of brent geese, way out on the harbour. Come May, he thought, these birds would have gone, returning to their breeding grounds in Siberia. By October, they'd be on the harbour again with their young, part of the slow pulse of the passing months that Faraday recognised more and more as a kind of solace. No matter how bad the job got, the geese would always be back.
A mile from the Bargemaster's House, the towpath ducked inland around the jetty where the dredgers discharged their sand and gravel, and Faraday paused in the windy darkness. He was now certain about the phrase of Mackenzie's that had lodged in his memory. He could even picture the moment when he'd first heard it not yesterday in Willard's Jaguar outside the hotel, but days earlier, at Tumbril HQ on Whale Island.
For Faraday's benefit, Prebble had devoted the best part of the morning to profiling Mackenzie. The young accountant had led the new DI step by step through the target's life, exploring the short cuts he'd taken, explaining the way he'd turned casual drug use into a multi-million-pound fortune, introducing the professional friends he'd picked up on the way. Then, towards the end of this impressive presentation, had come a sudden intervention from Imber. Something had angered him. Maybe the nerve of the man. Maybe the sheer scale of Mackenzie's success. Whatever the reason, he'd left no doubt that it was the business of Tumbril to strip Mackenzie of his assets. That way, Imber had said, he'd be back where he'd begun: a punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor.
Seconds later, thanks to Joyce, Faraday had been looking at a sheaf of wedding photos, Mackenzie's daughter surrounded by dozens of Pompey's finest. He could still remember the plump, moneyed faces beaming at the camera outside the cathedral but it was the earlier phrase that stuck in his mind. A punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor.
Faraday turned and began to make his way back towards the distant twinkle of the Bargemaster's House, wondering who in that room had passed it on. He could visualise the three faces around the table:
Prebble, Imber, Joyce. Why on earth would any of them betray Tumbril to Mackenzie?
Chapter twenty-three
MONDAY, 24 MARCH 2003, 09.35
Faraday was late getting to Kingston Crescent, delayed by an accident in Milton. Knocking at Willard's door, he stepped into the Det-Supt's office to find Brian Imber and Martin Prebble already sitting at the conference table. With Willard still at his desk, locked into a particularly difficult phone call, Joyce was busy in the adjacent kitchen.
"Sheriff?" She'd stolen up behind him.
Faraday made way for the tray of coffees and sat down at the table.
Imber wanted to know what was going on. All three of them had been denied entry at the Whale Island guardhouse. More alarming still, they'd had to surrender their security passes.
"All in good time, Brian." Willard had joined them at last. He took the seat at the head of the table and winced when he tasted the coffee.
Joyce rarely used less than two spoonfuls of instant.
Imber was still looking at Faraday. Already Faraday could
sense the suspicions shaping behind the tight smile. The collapse of Tumbril, he thought, had wreaked havoc. And one of the casualties might well be his friendship with this man.
Willard opened the meeting with a surprisingly chaotic account of the way they'd tried to sting Mackenzie. Faraday couldn't work out whether it was embarrassment or simple exhaustion, but it was only slowly that the real shape of the entrapment swam into focus. With Willard's preamble complete, it was Imber inevitably who sought clarification.
"Mackenzie was after the fort?"
"Indeed."
"Which was or wasn't for sale?"
"Was, as far as he was concerned."
"But for real, later? Because of the woman's circumstances?"
"That's correct."
"So what happened?"
This time, Willard was brisk. The meet had been set up for yesterday lunchtime. Minimum back-up kept the operation details tight. Wallace and Mackenzie met in the bar, then went through to the restaurant. The subsequent conversation was monitored and recorded. Half an hour into the meal, it became obvious that Wallace was blown. Not just Wallace, but Tumbril itself. Game, set and match to Mr. Mackenzie.
"I've just been talking to the CPS." Willard nodded towards the phone on his desk. "They want the operation discontinued. From here on in, they regard Tumbril as tainted."
"Tainted?" Faraday had never seen Imber so angry. "Is that why we were turned away this morning? Because you guys fucked up the covert?"
"Steady on, Brian." It was Willard. "This isn't easy for any of us."
"I'm sure it isn't, sir. I'm just curious, that's all. We arrive at work. We're denied access. The guy on the gate says the office has been sealed, guards posted, locks changed, the whole nine yards. That makes it a crime scene, doesn't it?"
"Yes." Willard nodded. "It does."
"Brilliant. I go home Friday night thinking we're getting somewhere at last. I've seen the stuff that Martin's prepared for you, the asset statement, and to me it's starting to look good so good I took my boys to London yesterday and never gave Tumbril a moment's thought. That's rare, believe me. Then this morning comes along, and I find the whole thing's collapsed. Bang, nothing left, year zero. Not only that but we're all under suspicion for blowing a sting about which we know absolutely nothing."
"What makes you think that?"
"Forgive me, sir, but I don't think you've thought this through. Our records will be seized, our e-mails, our phone logs, everything. Are you telling me this is some kind of exercise?"
"Not at all. Damage limitation might be closer."
"Damage to what? To whom?"
"To Tumbril. To us all. To the force in general. I repeat: Mackenzie knows everything. That means someone must have told him. And that means we have to find out who."
Imber fell silent for a moment. He was far too experienced a policeman to doubt for a moment the course of the next few weeks. With this much egg on Tumbril's face, someone had to start the cleanup.
"Are we suspended?" he asked at last. "Only it might be nice to know."
"No." Willard shook his head. "Mr. Alcott and I considered it but for the moment we don't believe there's a need."
"So who heads the inquiry?" Imber was looking at Faraday.
"Don't ask me, Brian." Faraday felt helpless. "I'm as much in the frame as you are."
"More, sir, with respect. You were there yesterday. Presumably you were in on the setting-up."
Willard stirred. "And so was I, Brian, if that's any consolation. This is getting us nowhere."
"Mr. Willard?" Prebble had raised a hand. "I know I'm not really in the loop here but it's not clear to me where this leaves the operation."
"Nowhere. I just told you. The CPS have knocked it on the head."
"So…" He was frowning, trying to follow the logic. "We never move against Mackenzie?"
"That's right."
"Or his solicitors? Accountants? All those nominees?"
"Right again. Unless the CPS have second thoughts."
"That's mad. More than a year's graft? That's insane."
"I agree."
Prebble looked sideways at Imber, a mute appeal for support, but Imber appeared to be in shock. His face, always lean, seemed to have caved in on itself. Here was a man, Faraday thought, who's just seen his life's work demolished in less time than it took him to shave in the morning. Nailing Mackenzie, in Imber's own words, was the closest he'd ever got to ripping up this evil by the roots. Now, Tumbril's prime target was beyond reach.
Willard was mapping the road ahead. Given the potential fallout from Tumbril, the Chief had instructed the Professional Standards Department to conduct a thorough investigation. Every member of the Tumbril team, including Willard himself, would in due course be required to make themselves available for interview. In the meantime, everyone with the exception of Prebble would be reassigned to other duties.
This time it was Joyce who raised a hand.
"I vote for a wake." She was looking at Faraday. "That's the least Tumbril owes us."
With the meeting over, Faraday was last to leave the table. At the door, Willard called him back. He was standing at his desk, firing up his laptop. At length, he keyed a file.
"Prebble e-mailed me this late last night. There's something you ought to look at."
Faraday recognised the asset analysis Prebble had been compiling on Friday afternoon. But for the accountant's abrupt departure for the train, he'd have read it earlier.
"Here." Willard had scrolled through to the final page. Under "Miscellaneous Assets' Prebble had listed a 7000 payment from Bellux Ltd to a local company called Ambrym. Faraday felt the blood begin to ice in his veins. Bellux Ltd was the most active of Mackenzie's many companies, the engine he used to power his commercial empire. An explanatory note explained that the money was a one-off contribution to a health education video.
"Ambrym?" Willard looked up at Faraday.
"Eadie's company."
"And the video?"
"That's the one J-J's been working on."
"About what, exactly?"
"Heroin."
"Co-funded by the guy who's been running drugs most of his life? If this wasn't Monday, I'd say we were looking at a piss-take here. What the fuck's going on?"
"I've no idea, sir." Faraday couldn't take his eyes off the screen.
Ambrym Productions. November 5, Z002. 7000. Grip, he thought.
Willard stepped away from the desk. Yesterday had left its mark on him: eyes shadowed by fatigue, a fold of skin bloodied under his chin where he'd been careless with the razor.
"We shouldn't be having this conversation, Joe, but let me remind you of the obvious. Investigating officers look for motive. You live with this woman. You want the best for her. You want her to succeed. 7000 isn't a lot of motive but it's a start. You get my drift?"
Faraday nodded. There was nothing to say. Dimly, he heard Willard telling him to sort out a list of Whale Island staff who might have had access to the Tumbril offices: cleaners, caterers, photocopier engineers. He wanted full details on his desk by tomorrow morning.
"OK?"
"Yes, sir." Faraday was back beside the door. "Cathy Lamb's little job…" he began.
"Tonight, you mean? Mike Valentine? The P amp;O ferry?" Willard looked at Faraday for a long moment, then shook his head. "The last thing she needs is help from us, Joe. I've told her to sort it from her end."
It was mid morning before Cathy Lamb was summoned to Secretan's office.
The Chief Supt had received a full brief on the forthcoming operation aboard The Pride of Portsmouth, and had indicated his approval. While he understood that the operation was purely speculative, based on thinnish evidence, he badly needed a headline or two of his own in the rapidly developing media war. Twice last week, the News had led its main evening edition with drug-related stories involving generous helpings of extreme violence. The city might have survived the Blitz, he told Cathy, but at this rate half the population would
be thinking hard about evacuation.
At lunchtime he was hosting a state visit from the Chief Constable and two carloads of assorted worthies. Portsmouth had been chosen as a prime example of a well-run BCU making serious inroads into the Home Office crime target figures. Before the Chief's party arrived, it might be nice to get the latest body count.
Cathy liked Secretan. He radiated exactly the kind of quiet exasperation she herself had turned into a way of life. There was no point, she decided, giving him anything but the truth.
"Good news first, sir. You remember the Scouse lad we picked up at the station? The one we tied to Nick Hayder with the DNA hit? The accident analysis guys think Hayder must have been dragged along for a bit before being thrown off. Then the lad at the wheel went back and ran him over."
"Nice." Secretan was staring out of the window. "You've charged him?"
"Last night, sir. He's still in hospital under guard. He's got no alibi for the Tuesday night. Says he was out of the city but can't remember where."
"Motive?"
"Hard to say. My guess is that Nick came across him by chance when he was out running, put two and two together, and challenged him. The rest we know."
"I thought there were two of them?"
"There probably were. We've been trying to nail down the other one for days now, spot of modest entrapment, but it came to nothing. If you're asking me, I'd say the Scousers have buggered off."
"Why?"
"Pastures new, sir. Plus the Yardies have arrived. As you know."
Secretan was looking glum. After months of harassment by a specialist Met unit, Jamaican dealers were spilling out of London and looking for profits elsewhere. Operation Trident might have been a high-profile success, tackling black-on-black gun crime, but in Secre-tan's view the problem had been displaced rather than cured. Every Chief Supt's waking nightmare featured Yardie gangs, and in Pompey's case the nightmare was in danger of coming true.
Secretan pushed his chair back from the desk and got to his feet. On a clear day, his office window offered a distant glimpse of the line of forts on top of Portsdown Hill. He stood there for a moment, deep in thought, then turned back to Cathy Lamb.
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