'Sure. You want something bad enough, it'll happen.'
Faraday nodded. Marta, he thought. And a year of stolen weekends.
'You mentioned conversation. What else do you talk about?'
'Everything. Is that a big deal?'
'It could be.' He paused. 'Does 'everything' include the job?'
'Of course. Harry's pissed off, big time, and from what he tells me I don't blame him.'
'Tumbril?'
For a moment, Joyce said nothing. This, they both knew, was where friendship parted company with something infinitely less elastic.
'I've mentioned it from time to time,' she said carefully. 'Heck, it's impossible not to.'
'So he knows about the operation?'
'Sure. But I just confirmed a rumour. Nothing comes to Harry as a surprise.'
'He told you he knew already?'
'Sure.'
'And you believed him?'
'Of course. Why not?'
'Because he's a detective, Joyce. And a bloody good one. Detectives lie all the time. You know that. It's part of the MO.'
'So you're telling me I should have kept my mouth shut?'
'I'm telling you it might have been better to stick to Marrakesh.
You're in the shit now, Joyce. And so is Harry.'
'You going to talk to him?'
'Somebody will.'
'Officially?'
'Afraid so.'
'You want me to phone him? Stand him by?'
'You'll do that anyway.'
'Too damn right I will.' She smiled at him. 'You mind me asking you a question?'
'Not at all.'
'What brought you here tonight? Why me?'
Faraday studied her for a long moment. Then he explained about the phrase Mackenzie had used in the conversation with Wallace, a phrase that could only have come from the earlier briefing on Whale Island.
Punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor.
'Coincidence, sheriff?'
'Doesn't work. Not in real life. If it looks like a duck, odds are it is a duck.'
'But there were four people at that briefing. I can see them now. I'm counting. So why me?'
Faraday paused again. No detective in his right mind would answer a question like this.
'I gave you a lift last week,' he said at last. 'I dropped you off in town. Remember?'
'Sure… and I saw that receipt on your dashboard. The Sally Port.
Room six. You know what I said to Harry that night? I said Harry, Joe Faraday's screwing some woman in a hotel in Old Portsmouth. And you know what Harry said? He said good luck to him.'
'Did you give him the room number? The date?'
'Probably. This girl's a stickler for detail. Part of my charm.' She paused. The smile had returned, warmer this time. She put her hand on Faraday's arm. 'Tell me something, sheriff.'
'What's that?'
'Was it true about the woman? Room six?'
Chapter twenty-five
TUESDAY, 25 MARCH 2003, 07.$8
Faraday awoke a minute or two before eight to find Eadie already gone.
A note on the pillow said she'd departed on a mission. An invitation to lunch at a Southsea restaurant followed, sealed with a flamboyant kiss.
For once, Faraday resisted the temptation to turn on the bedside radio.
The war, as far as he could gather, had turned into a showcase for American technology, inch-perfect uppercuts delivered from hundreds of miles away thanks to the miracles of laser targeting and GPS. Sooner rather than later, American armoured columns would thunder into Baghdad, Bush would declare peace, and then in all probability — the real war would begin.
The big, bare living room was already bathed in sunshine. In the kitchenette Faraday was hunting for a fresh box of tea bags when he caught the trill of his mobile.
'Faraday?' It was Harry Wayte. 'What the fuck's going on?'
Harry wasted no time on small talk. He'd had a call from Joyce. Last night's little visit had been totally out of order. What kind of copper took advantage of a friendship to go banging around in someone else's private life?
Twice, Faraday tried to interrupt, to explain himself, to put everything into some kind of context, but he knew there was no point.
'You want a meet?' he managed at last.
'Too fucking right, I do. And nowhere near the nick, either.'
'Car park on Farlington Marshes? Half ten?'
'I'll be there.'
Wayte rang off, leaving Faraday gazing at the mobile. He knew with total certainty that Harry Wayte had blown Tumbril not just part of it, but all of it. He walked across to the window and stared out. High tide, he thought numbly, watching the water lapping at the landing stage on Spit Bank Fort. He stood motionless for a moment or two, wondering whether Gisela Mendel was in residence, whether she, too, was up and half-dressed, gazing out at the makings of a tricky day.
Faraday returned to the kitchenette and retrieved his mobile. Willard answered his call on the second ring. He was still at home in Portsmouth but was due to leave for Winchester any minute. Faraday kept it short. He had compelling evidence that the Tumbril disaster was down to Harry Wayte. And now Harry wanted a meet.
'Who with?'
'Me.'
'Alone?'
'Yes.'
'When?'
'Half ten.'
'How sure are you? About Harry?'
'Very sure.'
'Stay there. I need to talk to someone.'
Willard was back on the phone within minutes. Faraday was perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of tea.
'Where are you at the moment?'
'Eadie's place. South Parade.' He gave Willard the address.
There was a brief pause. Then Willard was back on the line.
'Someone'll be round within the hour. Face you might recognise.'
'Like who?'
'Graham Wallace.'
'Wallace? Why?'
'I want you to wear a wire to the meet.' Willard wasn't interested in arguments. 'I'm going to sort that bastard Wayte if it's the last thing I do. Wind him up, Joe, Press his buttons. I want evidence. I want the thing
