'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 the 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 DIOn 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 six
WEDNESDAY, 19 MARCH 2003, 17.00
Faraday, alone in Eadie Sykes's se afront 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 se afront 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
