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 seafront 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. Said he thought the money was dodgy.”
“Drugs money?”
“Has to be. He didn’t say it in those terms but Mackenzie will draw his own conclusions.”
“He thinks you’re in the same game?”
“With luck.” He nodded. “Yes.”
Faraday was eyeing the last of the sandwiches. A legend within a legend. Neat.
“So Mackenzie really does need you off the plot?”
“Exactly. For one thing, I’m after his precious fort. And for another, I’m potential competition. The way I understand it, he’s got this city pretty tied up. Me, he doesn’t need.”
“And you’re thinking he’ll compromise himself?”
“That was Nick’s bid, sure. I just play along.”
Faraday reached for the sandwich, impressed by the lengths to which Nick Hayder had gone. Set up a sting operation like this the false ID, the credit cards, the Porsche, the London office, the flat to go with it -and you were looking at a six-figure bill. Putting Mackenzie away and confiscating all his assets would dwarf that sum but there was absolutely no guarantee that this would ever happen. No wonder Nick hadn’t been sleeping at night.
“Has this survey of yours happened yet?”
“No.”
“But it’s kosher? You’ve got it organised?”
“Oh yes. Structural engineer, architect the lot. Last time I talked to Mackenzie he told me I should forget it. Why piss away all that money, mate?” The Pompey accent again. “Why give yourself the grief?”
“And you?”
“I just laughed.”
“So when’s the survey due?”
“End of next week.” Up on one elbow, Wallace nodded at the phone and flashed Faraday a smile. “Which is why our friend will now be wanting a meet.”
It took three attempts on the mobile before DC Jimmy Suttle managed to get through to Paul Winter.
“Where are you?” The older man sounded half asleep.
“Hampshire Terrace.”
“What’s happening?”
“It’s pouring with bloody rain.” Suttle was doing his best to find shelter beneath a dripping lime tree across t
he road. Rush hour traffic was beginning to back up from the nearby roundabout, blocking his view of the terrace. “The lad went into an office. Number 68. There’s a solicitors’ on the first two floors and something called Ambrym Productions at the top. Haven’t seen him since.”
“Ambrym belongs to a woman called Eadie Sykes.” Winter smothered a yawn. “She makes videos.”
“Should I know her?”
“Only if you’re a mate of Faraday’s.”
“The DIO Major Crimes?”
“Yeah. She’s his shag. Big woman. Australian.”
“And the lad?”
“Faraday’s son You could try for an interview but don’t hold your breath.”
“Why not?”
“He’s deaf and dumb. Only speaks sign.”
Suttle was still trying to work out why a DI’s son, Major Crimes for God’s sake, should be keeping such bad company. Winter beat him to it.
“Kid’s got a reputation for getting himself in the shit. You should have been around a couple of years back.” “So what do I do now? Any suggestions?”
“Stay there. Cathy’s sending a relief on this job. I’ll pick you up.” “Like when?” “Like soon.” Suttle heard Winter laughing. “Looks evil out there.”
J-J had waited nearly half an hour for Eadie to finish her phone call. She’d signed that one of the video’s backers, the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership, were demanding an update on what was going on. It was taxpayers’ money they were handing out and Ambrym were a month late sending in the quarterly progress report. Without the right ticks in the right boxes, there’d be problems releasing the next tranche of funding. And if that happened, according to the Ambrym spreadsheet she’d been obliged to share with the agency, her cash flow would turn to rat shit.
Eadie went through the agreed project milestones for the second time. Yes, they’d completed the initial research. Yes, they’d touched base with each of the city’s drug abuse organisations. Yes, they’d circulated full details of the project to a thousand and one other interested parties including every school in the city, every further education college, every youth group, every neighbourhood forum. And yes, she’d even managed to comply with the positive discrimination requirements by hiring someone with a registered disability.
“That’s you,” she signed, at last putting the phone down. “How did you get on?”
J-J had spent most of the last half-hour wondering just how much to tell her about Pennington Road. In the end, he decided there was no point even mentioning it. He’d come away empty-handed. With luck, he’d never see the guys with the dog ever again.
“Daniel’s sick,” he signed.
“What do you mean, sick?”
“Strung out. Hurting.”
“Strung out enough not to do the interview?”
J-J hesitated. 90 worth of heroin was the price of the interview. He wasn’t at all sure what would happen if they turned up without the accompanying wraps.
“I don’t know. He looks really bad to me.” He shrugged lamely, then mimed a state of imminent collapse.
Eadie watched him, scenting an opportunity.
“A real mess, you mean? The shakes? The sweats? Clucking?”
J-J nodded, an emphatic yes.
“You think he’s got anything stashed away? Emergency supplies?”
A shake of the head.
“And this was when?” She glanced at her watch. “An hour ago?” With the greatest reluctance, a nod.
“Excellent.” Eadie was on her feet. “I’ll give you a hand with the lights and tripod. The car’s out the back.”
Chapter 6
WEDNESDAY, 19 MARCH 2003, 17.00
Faraday, alone in Eadie Sykes’s seafront flat, gazed out at the rain. Ten minutes ago, he’d finally brought the session with the u/c officer to an end. In an hour or so, he’d have to drive down to the historic dockyard for yet another meet with Willard. For now, though, he owed himself a pause for thought.
Eadie rented her flat from her ex-husband, a successful accountant, and the block lay on the seafront within sight of South Parade pier. It had once been a hotel but the kind of holiday makers who booked for a week or a fortnight had long since fled to Spain, and the building, like so many others in the terrace, had been converted into apartments.
Eadie’s was at the very top, a big, open space that she’d floored with maple wood and garnished with the bare minimum of furniture. Over the last year or so, Faraday had sometimes wondered about an extra chair or two, something to make it cosier, but Eadie always insisted that the whole point of the place was the view, and in this, as in so much else, Faraday knew she was right.
Four floors up, a stone’s throw from the beach, the apartment offered a seat in the dress circle. Away to the left, the rusting gauntness of the pier. Offshore, the busy comings and goings of countless ferries, warships, fishing boats, yachts, their passage fenced by the line of buoys that dog-legged out towards the English Channel. Beyond them, the low, dark swell of the Isle of Wight.
Faraday had lost count of the number of times he’d stood here, marvelling at the play of light, at the constant sense of movement, at the way a line of squall showers could march up the Solent, bringing with it a thousand variations of sunshine and shadow. Today, though, was different. Today there was only a grey blanket of thickening drizzle and the grim, squat shape of Spit Bank Fort.
Eadie kept her binoculars on a hook beside the big glass doors that opened onto the recessed balconette. They’d been a Christmas present from Faraday, an unsuccessful down payment on birding expeditions together, and now he slid back one of the tall plate-glass doors and raised the binos. The optics were excellent, even on a day like this.
The skirt of green weed around the bottom of the fort told Faraday it was low tide. Above the weed, an iron landing stage looked newly painted. A big grey inflatable hung on a pair of davits and a staircase ran upwards to double doors set into the granite walls. One of the doors was open, an oblong of black, and higher still Faraday’s binoculars found a white structure the size of a mobile home perched on the roof of the fort.
He lingered a moment, wondering what it might be like to live on a site like this, to wake up every morning to views of Southsea seafront across the churning tide, then he let the binos drift down again until he was following a line of open gun ports. Spit Bank Fort, he thought, looked exactly the way you’d imagine: unlovely, purposeful, thousands of tons of iron and granite dedicated to the preservation of the city at its back.
Faraday permitted himself a smile. Over the years, he’d talked to old men in Milton pubs who remembered the last war. There’d been ack-ack guns on Southsea Common, barrage balloons ringing the dockyard, and Spit Bank Fort would undoubtedly have played its own part in protecting the city against the swarms of Luftwaffe bombers. Odd, then, that a German should find herself in charge here. And odder still that Bazza Mackenzie, Pompey born and bred, should choose this sturdy little piece of military history to mark his coronation. King of the City indeed.
Wallace’s two phone conversations with Mackenzie had been taped, the transcripts and cassettes locked in Willard’s office safe. According to Wallace, Mackenzie had been up front, even matey, one businessman talking to another. He’d wanted to gauge the strength of Wallace’s interest and he’d been blunt enough to ask whether Wallace really knew what he was getting into.
Mackenzie said he’d been out to the fort three or four times and taken a good nose round. The place, he warned, was damp as fuck. The roof needed a total sort-out and some days if you talked to the right people they didn’t have enough buckets to cope with all the leaks. Health and Safety would be taking a hard look at some of the exterior ironwork and he wouldn’t be at all surprised if they red-carded the lot. On top of that, there were problems with the well that supplied the fort with fresh water and if he was honest you’d be looking to rewire the whole place as well as shelling out for a new generator. That’s why his bid was so low. Pay anything
close to the million and a quarter quid she was asking, and you’d be adding half that again easy for the refurb.
Wallace had ridden out the warnings and when Mackenzie, in the most recent conversation, had begun to press him about his own funding he’d kept things deliberately vague. He said he’d been lucky with a shopping development in Oman. Currency fluctuations had gone in his favour. A big investment in euros had netted him a small fortune and there were other bits and pieces that kept his bank manager more than happy. This last phrase had stopped Mackenzie in his tracks, and shortly afterwards he’d dropped his conversational guard to offer what to Wallace sounded like a buy-off. “What would it take,” Mackenzie had mused, ‘for you to pull out?”
Wallace had parried the offer with a chuckle. Money, he told Mackenzie, was the last thing he needed. Neither was he up for a compensatory slice of whatever business Mackenzie had in mind for the fort. No, his own interest was quite clear. Various trips abroad, he’d seen what a good architect could do with a site like this. He wanted to turn Spit Bank into one of Europe’s most unusual five-star hotels. On Nick Hayder’s prompting, he’d added that he might even be considering gaming facilities.
This last conversation had hit the buffers shortly afterwards but one phrase in particular had stuck in Wallace’s mind. “This is a funny town,” Mackenzie had said, ‘but you won’t know that until you’ve lived here a bit.” This observation had struck Wallace as a warning and he’d pressed Mackenzie on the kind of time scale he had in mind. What did ‘bit’ mean? Mackenzie, it seemed, had laughed down the phone. “A lifetime,” he’d said. “Anything less, and you’re fucking playing at it.”
Faraday’s own session with Wallace had concluded with a handshake and an exchange of mobile numbers. The u/c, it turned out, was keeping his visits to Portsmouth to an absolute minimum. Faraday got the impression Wallace had another u/c job on the go, different legend, but he certainly seemed to have plenty to keep himself occupied. Wallace had reported Mackenzie’s interest in a face-to-face meeting and he’d been waiting for Nick Hayder to make some kind of decision. With Hayder now in hospital, that decision would presumably pass to Faraday.
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