it a day.'
Faraday nodded. He'd heard this from Imber before, almost word for word. For reasons the DS had never revealed, he'd won himself a reputation as a crusader when it came to the drugs issue. Since the mid-eighties, he'd been warning about the impending apocalypse, not simply because of his worries about his own kids, but because his intelligence work had taught him very early on that Class A narcotics would one day fuel an entire economy. Ignore the drugs issue, he'd said, and the consequences would be catastrophic.
Imber's bosses at every level, besieged by the pressures of volume crime, had paid lip service to this relentless lobbying. They read the reports he put together. They even circulated his more measured assessments of developments to come. But it had taken a figure like Bazza Mackenzie to persuade them to give Imber his head. Why? Because Mackenzie's wealth was beginning to taint every corner of the city. And that, in Willard's phrase, was a cop-out too far.
Faraday watched Imber pour himself a glass of juice from the fridge.
Marathon training evidently forbade him any form of caffeine. Finally, he looked up.
'Willard's stuck his neck out,' Imber said. 'And I admire him for that.'
'Easy sell?'
'You're joking. It's not just the resources, it's other coppers. Every one thinks you're trespassing in this game.'
'You're supposed to be invisible.'
'I know. And thanks to Nick we largely are. But blokes know something's up and they get extremely pissed off.'
'Like who?'
'Doesn't matter. I'd give you a list of names but there's no point.
I'm just telling you this thing isn't easy. We're out here on our own and we've got a bloody great mountain to climb. Take on someone like Bazza and you'd be amazed the people you upset.'
'Does that bother you?'
'Not in the least. As long as we get a result.'
Faraday studied him a moment, aware that Joyce had stopped typing.
'And you think we will get a result?' he said at last.
'I think we have to.'
'Despite all the' Faraday frowned 'aggravation?'
'Of course.' Imber gave him a long, searching look. 'You are up for this, aren't you?'
Chapter four
WEDNESDAY, 19 MARCH 2OO3, 11.50
Winter left his Subaru in the underground car park at Gunwharf Quays and led Suttle up the escalator towards the shopping plaza. It had taken two conversations on the mobile to coax a meet from Trudy Gallagher and, hearing the squawk of seagulls in the background, it gave Winter no comfort at all to realise the obvious. Misty Gallagher lived in one of the Gunwharf apartments overlooking the waterfront.
Trudy had gone back to mum.
The Gumbo Parlour had only just opened. A harassed-looking waitress was at the back of the restaurant, polishing glasses. Winter selected a table by the window and took the seat with the best view.
Beyond the walkway, on the very edge of the harbour, contractors were working on the first stages of the Spinnaker Tower, a 500-foot extravaganza that would, hoped the council, put Pompey on the national map. Winter watched as another bucket of concrete was winched slowly into place, wondering what kind of difference a structure like this would really make. Fans of the tower banged on about the boldness of the gesture, how it spoke of confidence and a new start for the city, but Winter was rather fond of the other Portsmouth, scruffy, blunt, and perfectly happy to muddle through.
Suttle was already browsing the lunchtime choices. Moules a I'Americaine, he thought, sounded nice.
'We're having coffee,' Winter told him, 'unless you're paying.'
He settled back in his chair, watching a sailing dinghy on the harbour fighting to get out of the way of a huge inbound ferry. Trudy had promised to meet them at noon, and she still had ten minutes in hand.
'You should meet her mum,' he told Suttle. 'In fact you probably will.'
'That's a promise?'
'Health warning. Anything in trousers under thirty, you're talking serious risk assessement.'
Misty Gallagher, over the years, had become a legend. Winter had been to parties where she'd taken three men to bed, two of them CID, one a convicted bank robber, and left all of them the best of friends. Bazza Mackenzie, impressed by her contacts as well as her looks, had been shagging her since the mid nineties, setting her up in a series of properties he'd bought for development. More recently, he'd installed her in a third-floor apartment in one of the Gunwharf blocks beyond the shopping complex, a 600,000 gesture to say she still mattered. Lately, though, explained Winter, the relationship appeared to have come under some strain.
'How?' Suttle was still eyeing the menu.
'Italian bird, much younger than Mist. Bit of style, bit of class, doesn't need a bag over her head.'
'Misty's a dog?'
'Far from it, body to die for even now, but the woman's got a real mouth on her, never knows when to shut up. Pompey girl…' Winter beckoned the waitress. 'Comes with the territory.'
The waitress took the order. Two cappuccinos. Suttle watched her making her way back towards the coffee machine.
'So where's the father?'
'Trudy's dad? Christ knows. His name's Gallagher but I can't remember ever meeting him. Mist's real name is Marlene, by the way, and there are blokes in the job still call her that. Drives her mad.'
'So why Misty?'
'You don't want to know.'
'Go on.'
Winter shook his head, telling him it didn't matter, but Suttle was insistent and Winter finally gave in, recounting another party trick Misty used to pull. The story revolved around Misty's chest, of which she was extremely proud, and Winter had got to the bit where Misty removed her top when he became aware of a tall, striking figure in a tight red skirt and high leather boots.
'You're really fucking sad, Paul Winter.' She sank into the spare chair. 'You know that?'
Trudy was unrecognisable. Last time Suttle had seen her, stumbling into the back of an ambulance in the middle of the night, she'd stepped out of a Salvation Army poster. Now, barely half a day later, she might have graced the cover of a fashion magazine. Suttle couldn't take his eyes off her.
'Coffee? Something to eat?' He was already on his feet.
'Latte. With tons of sugar. And one of them Danish pastries. No' she was fumbling in her bag for a cigarette 'make that two.'
With Suttle gone, Winter leaned forward across the table. Trudy catching him in mid story hadn't embarrassed him in the slightest.
Quite the reverse.
'How is she, then, that mum of yours?'
'Off her trolley. As usual.'
'Seeing lots of her, are you?'
'Not if I can help it. She's pissed me off, if you want the truth.
Seriously pissed me off.'
'Why's that?'
Trudy didn't answer. She lit the cigarette, and Winter watched her as she tipped her head back, expelling a long plume of blue smoke.
Trudy's eyes had followed Suttle to the counter.
