Willard's office was across the corridor.
'Joe.' The Det-Supt barely looked up from his PC. 'You talked to Wayte?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. I'll be with you in a minute.'
Faraday settled himself at the conference table. Willard finally joined him. For a big man, Faraday thought, he looked strangely diminished, even forlorn.
'So how did it go?'
'Nothing actionable. He'll fight the inquiry all the way.'
'Nothing?' Willard was frowning. 'I thought you told me he'd blown Tumbril?'
'He has. That's exactly what he's done.'
'To Mackenzie?'
'I assume so.'
'Assume so? What kind of dog wank is that?'
Willard rarely stooped to canteen language. He was plainly under immense pressure.
Faraday leaned forward, taking the chance to explain exactly what had happened over the last twenty-four hours. How he'd isolated that single phrase about Mackenzie on the tape from the Solent Palace. How the phrase had to have come from a Tumbril meeting. How he'd shrunk the suspect list to just four names. And what had emerged from last night's visit to Joyce's place.
'So she's been shagging Harry Wayte?'
'Yes.'
'Fucking hell. And giving him all our secrets?'
'They talk. Shagging isn't a crime. Neither is conversation.'
'It bloody well is when it goes straight to Mackenzie.'
'That's not Joyce's fault.'
'Of course it is, Joe. She signed an undertaking about Tumbril. By talking to Harry, she broke it. She's either stupid or guilty. You're telling me she trusts this man?'
'She's in love with him. It's often the same thing… As we all know.'
'What the fuck does that mean?'
'Nothing, sir. But you know it and I know it. Get really serious about someone and the rest of it goes out of the window.'
'The rest of it being Tumbril}'1
'Yes.'
'What about Wayte? What's his line?'
'He wants early retirement. Insists, in fact.'
'He's copping out?'
'Yes. It's the white flag. He's jacking it in.'
Willard brooded about this news for a moment. Then he looked up at Faraday again.
'So what does he have to say about Mackenzie?'
'Nothing. He denies everything. He's insisting he's never said a word to Mackenzie and it's up to PSD to prove otherwise. He'll take them to the wire.'
'And there's absolutely no hard evidence that ties him to Mackenzie?'
'None. Joyce admits she discussed Tumbril with him.'
'About what? Specifically?'
'About a booking at the Sally Port. Room six. Graham Wallace.'
'Last week, you mean?'
'Yes.'
'How the fuck did she know about that?'
'I…' Faraday felt about twelve '… left a room service receipt in the car from the afternoon I was with Wallace. Joyce happened to see it. Thought I was over the side. Passed it on as gossip. Like you do.'
'Great. Wonderful. The receipt had Wallace's name on it?'
'No, sir, just the room number.'
'So how did Joyce tie the receipt to Wallace?'
'Wayte fronted up at the hotel. Sat the manager down and did the business.'
'As a copper?'
'As a DI. Warrant card, the lot.'
'You know that?'
'I talked to the manager last night.'
'Got a statement off him?'
'No… but it's there for the taking.'
'Thank Christ for that. Anything else?'
'No, sir.'
'The tape from this morning?'
'Useless. Packed up halfway through. Technical fault.'
Willard nodded. Back at his desk, he put a call through to the Chief Supt. heading the Professional Standards Department. Briefly, he passed on the news about the manager at the Sally Port. PSD should get someone down there sharpish. Harry Wayte, in his view, was on a nicking. And so was Joyce. The conversation over, he turned to Faraday again.
'That Harry Wayte,' he said softly, 'is a dead man.'
The restaurant Eadie had chosen for lunch was in the heart of Southsea.
Sur-la-Mer offered decent French cuisine at sensible prices with a respectable wine list to go with it. Eadie chose a '95 Rioja, a tacit signal to Faraday that all was well with their world. To Faraday, depressed by the last couple of hours, it was the sweetest possible news. Since she'd got back from Kingston Crescent, she'd received word from the people at the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership. They'd watched their copy of the VHS, and although they'd never expected anything quite as hard-hitting, a first viewing indicated that it might make a bit of an impact.
'Impact?' Faraday laughed, light-headed now. 'Christ.'
'I talked to one of the girls there. Off the record, she told me they might be up for paying for proper distribution.'
'I thought that was all taken care of?'
'No.' Eadie snapped a bread stick in two. 'I've only budgeted for Hampshire. This would take it nationwide.'
'Brilliant.' Faraday raised a glass. 'Congratulations. You've bloody earned it.'
'You really think so?'
'Yes. I've had my doubts but…' They touched glasses. 'Turns out I was wrong.'
'How does that work?' Eadie couldn't believe her ears.
'Well…' Faraday was frowning now. 'If you think there's a problem, a real problem, then you have to confront it. In our job we try and do just that but it's getting harder all the time.'
'Yeah?'
'Yes.' He nodded. 'I can give a list as long as your arm. Changes in the law, everyone moving the goalposts, crap morale, whatever. As a cop you start off wanting to make a difference but in the end it grinds you down. In your game, it isn't like that at all. You answer to no one. You sense a problem out there, you go and tape it. Going gets rough, you ride it out. And in the end, because you won't take no for an answer, you get a result. Nice.' He raised his glass. 'I applaud you.'
'Shit.'
'What's the matter?'
'Nothing.' Eadie turned her head away. For once in her life, she was close to tears.
The waiter arrived. Faraday chose lamb shank. Eadie, trying to focus on the menu, finally ordered a cheese omelette. Faraday helped himself to more wine. Time to change the subject.
'Why were you after Secretan's name last night?'
