that there was something between them. He'd rarely seen Willard so animated, so eager. He seemed to have shed years.
Faraday clambered down into the inflatable and zipped up his anorak.
Gisela, behind her dark glasses, was waiting for Willard to cast off.
Her hand was ready on the twin throttles perfect nails, blood red. When she turned to check the clearance beyond the bow, the last of the sunshine shadowed the planes of her face. Mid forties, thought Faraday. Maybe less.
Once Willard was on board, she eased away from the jetty, burbling out towards the harbour. The wind was stronger here, the slap of halyards against the masts of a line of moored yachts, and once they'd cleared the harbour entrance, she pushed the throttles wide open against the stops.
The inflatable responded at once, surging forward, and Faraday braced himself, glad he'd rescued a woollen scarf from the Mondeo. Willard was sitting beside him, oblivious to the freezing spray. Twice he shouted something to Gisela but the wind and the roar of the outboards carried his words away. Watching her at the wheel, Faraday realised how often she must have made this journey. She rode the inflatable like a horse, with immense skill, driving it hard at the oncoming waves then nudging left and right as she felt for the grain of the flooding tide. Over towards Ryde, Faraday could see the bulk of a container ship, outward bound from Southampton, and when he looked back towards the shoreline he thought he could just make out the line of apartments next to South Parade pier, white in the gathering dusk.
The tidal stream around the fort, a foaming river of water, made berthing tricky. Faraday could smell the dampness of the place, sense the history behind the glistening granite blocks. Willard was playing the sailor again, doing his best to grab a stanchion as the inflatable surged up and down, and Faraday caught the expression on Gisela's face as she nudged the bow towards the waiting pair of hands on the landing stage above them. She looked amused.
A rope ladder provided access to the landing stage. Willard caught a wave as he waited a second too long and was soaking wet by the time Faraday hauled him upwards. Gisela was the last off, leaving the inflatable to be secured for the return trip.
They followed her into the fort. It was nearly dark now, and the vaulted passageway that led to the central courtyard was softly lit by wall lights cleverly recessed into the granite walls. There were more of these feminine touches in the courtyard itself tubs of year-round flowers, a sturdy little palm tree, tables and chairs warmed by a thicket of space heaters but there was no disguising the essence of this place. A sense of military purpose hung over everything. It was there in the brick-lined casemates around the edge of the courtyard, in the iron spiral staircase that disappeared into the bowels of the fort, in the hand-lettered notices that Gisela had so carefully preserved.
Number 14 Store Hammocks, read one. Caution Shell Lift, warned another.
'We use these two as classrooms. The rest is accommodation.' Gisela had paused outside one of the casemates.
Faraday peered in. Perhaps a dozen figures sat at individual desks. A tutor was standing at the front, a map of the Balkans on the blackboard behind him. One of the women in the class had her hand in the air.
'You want to eavesdrop?'
'No.' It was Willard. The soaking on the ladder had tested his sense of humour. He wanted a towel and something hot to drink.
'So.' Gisela's English carried the faintest trace of a foreign inflection. 'Upstairs, then.'
She led the way across the courtyard and up another flight of steps. At the top, Faraday recognised the white structure he'd glimpsed earlier from Eadie's flat. A newly painted door opened into a tiny lobby. It was suddenly warm inside and there was a smell of fresh flowers. This was obviously where Gisela lived.
'You know where the bathroom is. I'll make tea.'
Willard disappeared and Faraday followed Gisela into a living room. The wide picture windows faced north, across the deep-water shipping lane, and Faraday could make out the line of coloured lights that ran the length of Southsea promenade. Beyond them, in the gloom, the black spire of St. Jude's church.
'You drink tea?' Her voice came through a hatch from the galley kitchen.
'Please. Two sugars.'
Faraday gazed round. The room had been furnished with some care, neat rather than cosy. A compact, two- seat sofa faced the window. There was a television in one corner and a fold-down table in another. The laptop on the table was open and the screen saver featured a view down an Alpine valley. Faraday's attention was caught by a framed photo propped beside a row of paperbacks in the bookcase above the table. It showed Gisela in a striking yellow hat beside a heavy-set man in his middle fifties. The man was bowing. Gisela was performing an elegant curtsey. The third figure in the photograph was the Queen.
'Buck House garden party.' Willard had emerged from the bathroom.
'Hubby got the CBE.'
'For?'
'Services to the nation. Merchant of death.'
'He lives here, too?'
'Visits very occasionally. They've got a place up in Henley, river frontage, paddocks for the horses, the lot. You could fit Kingston Crescent into the walled garden with room to spare.'
Faraday at last turned round. Willard had found a sweater from somewhere, an expensive polo neck in black cashmere wool, almost a perfect fit. The man in the photo, thought Faraday. Similar build.
Gisela returned with a tray of tea. She turned off the laptop and made space on the table. Willard organised another couple of chairs from the room next door and then got down to business. For Faraday's benefit, he wanted Gisela to describe her dealings with Bazza Mackenzie.
Gisela was looking amused again, that same expression, and Faraday found himself wondering quite where this relationship parted company with Tumbril. Willard never let anyone in the job anywhere near his private life but there'd always been rumours that the partner in Bristol wasn't quite enough.
'He phoned first, very friendly. That was a couple of months ago. Just after Christmas. He'd heard this place was for sale and he wanted to come out and take a look. He arrived next day.'
'Alone?'
'No. He came with a couple of friends, both of them older. Tommy?'
She was looking at Willard. l]aV 'Tommy Cross.' Willard nodded. 'Used to work in the dockyard. Bazza uses him as a cut-price structural engineer, sorts out the conversions when Mackenzie's in the mood for another cafe- bar. It was Tommy who gave this place the once-over. Stayed most of the day, didn't he?
Drove you mad?' He flashed a smile at Gisela.
'That's right. Lunch and supper. It was dark by the time they went.'
Within twenty-four hours, she said, Mackenzie had been back on the phone. He'd drawn up a contract. He had a price in mind. All Gisela had to do was sign.
'As simple as that?' It was Faraday's turn to smile. This was where Mackenzie's list of problems must have come from. Letting Tommy Cross loose on a structure like Spit Bank Fort might have been the best investment Mackenzie ever made. Except that Gisela wasn't having it.
'I turned him down. 200,000 was a joke and I told him so. It cost me 385,000 before I even started.'
'What did he say?'
'He laughed. He said he didn't blame me. He also said something else.'
'What was that?'
'He said I was a nightmare to do business with.'
'Why?'
'Because I was tasty as well as clever.'
'He said that? Tasty? That was the word he used?'
'Yes. I think he meant it as a compliment. To be honest, I didn't care. That's the kind of person he is. In your face. Right there.'
She held her hand in front of her nose. 'After some of my husband's clients, believe me, that's a relief.'
'You liked him?'
'Yes, I do. He's not frightened of women. And he's straightforward, too. A silly offer like 200,000? All I have
