to do is say no. I can live with that.'
Within a week, Mackenzie was back on the phone. He'd had a bit of a think. He could go to 250,000. Once again, Gisela just laughed.
'And it went on,' she said. 'Another 10,000, another 10,000. In the end I said there were easier ways to chat a woman up. He agreed.'
'So what happened?'
'He invited me out. We went to Gunwharf, Forty Below. You know it?'
Faraday nodded. Forty Below featured in most of the weekend disturbance reports. Ambulance crews set their clocks by Friday night's first call to a serious affray. This woman could take her pick of Europe's finest restaurants. Only Bazza Mackenzie would treat her to Forty Below.
'How did you get on?'
'Fine. He made me laugh. I liked that.'
'And the fort? The business?'
'He said he had to have it. He told me all about his plans, the casino, the decor, the kind of food he wanted to serve, special suites for honeymooners. He was like a kid with a new toy. It was sweet, really.'
'And the price?'
'He'd got to 400,000.'
'So what did you say?'
'No. He said he couldn't go another penny higher but he offered to sleep with me. That would take it up to half a million.'
'Sleeping with Mackenzie's worth a hundred grand?' Faraday began to laugh.
'You can hear him on the tapes.' Willard was gazing out at the lights of Southsea. 'Can you believe that? Mackenzie?
'He's funny,' Gisela said again. 'I think he meant it as a joke.'
Willard ignored this mild reproof. What was important just now was the presence of Wallace in the bidding. By upping the price to 900,000, he explained to Gisela, Tumbril had put the screws on Mackenzie.
'Deep down, the guy's unstable. Everyone knows it. What we need is a deadline. That's where the survey comes in. Part of me says we agree to meet before Friday. He might just compromise himself to sort the whole thing out. Otherwise we leave it a week or so. Wallace gets the thumbs-up from the survey and makes a decision to go ahead. At that point, Mackenzie has to make a move. Either he tops the offer or gets rid of the opposition.'
'You really think he'll pay another half million?' Gisela was gazing out into the dark.
'To be frank, no.'
'Pity… ' 'Oh?' For the first time, Willard was on new ground. 'Why's that?'
Gisela studied him a moment, the way you might assess a child's preparedness for bad news, then she touched him lightly on the hand.
'I'm afraid the story's changed. I really do have to sell the place.'
She smiled. 'And 900,000 in cash would be more than acceptable.'
'You're serious?'
'Perfectly.'
'May I ask why?'
'Of course.' The smile faded. 'Peter and I are divorcing.'
Misty Gallagher was drunk by the time the cab dropped her off at the Indian Palace. Paul Winter had phoned her earlier, planning to drive down to Gunwharf and pay her a social call, but Misty was adamant that she'd had enough of the apartment. She and Trude had been at it since late afternoon. Another hour of that kind of abuse and she'd take a carving knife to her mouthy daughter.
Winter had his usual table at the back of the restaurant. He'd been coming here for months now and he liked the people who ran it. He gave them all kinds of bullshit but they knew he was lonely and they treated him well. At forty-five, robbed of a wife you'd taken for granted, you appreciated that kind of courtesy.
'Misty. Long time.'
He got to his feet and guided her into the waiting chair. She was wearing a see-through black top over a pair of spray-on jeans. Unless Winter was bloody careful, the waiters would be selling tickets at the door.
'Paul…' Her eyes were glassy. 'They do wine here?'
'Sure. White?'
'Rose.'
'Of course. Mateus OK?' He signalled towards the bar without waiting for an answer. When the waiter came over, he pointed to number 7 on the wine list. 'And another Stella for me, son.' He turned back to Misty. She was trying to find a lighter for her cigarette. 'How's tricks, then, Mist? Still getting it?'
'Fuck off. You know, don't you?'
'Know what?'
'Me and Bazza.' She'd found the lighter. 'Man's a prick.'
Winter did his best to look reproachful. It had been common knowledge for more than a year that Bazza Mackenzie had decided to trade Misty in for a newer model, but he'd somehow assumed that Misty would cope.
Evidently not.
'I caught him in Clockwork the other night with that Italian bitch. Had it out with him then and there.'
Clockwork was the hottest of the late-night clubs down by South Parade pier, currently fashionable amongst the city's more successful criminals. Misty, on the wrong end of a bottle of Moet, had found Bazza at the bar with the lovely Lucia and a bunch of his best mates.
Robbed of the power of speech, Misty had ordered another bottle of Moet, hosed him down, and left him with the bill.
'His mates loved it.' She had a smile on her face. 'Told me I should have done it months ago.'
Bazza, enraged, had pursued Misty onto the se afront Lucia had locked herself in the toilets and half the fucking town was in stitches.
Didn't Misty know that times had moved on? Didn't she have any sense of style? Of occasion? These were strokes you just didn't pull any more. Certainly not in public.
'He sent the agent round next day.'
'What agent?'
'The estate agent. Bloke I even knew. Told me Baz had decided to put the flat on the market. That fucking day. Vacant possession. Can you believe that? After all the shit I've had to put up with?'
Winter pulled a face. The wine had arrived and he steadied Misty's glass as the waiter did the honours. Given the state of the woman, he estimated he had maybe half an hour to coax any sense out of her.
Tops.
'Tell me about Trude, Mist.'
'What about her?'
'We found her in a bit of a state last night. She might have told you.'
'She tells me fucking nothing. Except what a cow I am. Can you imagine? That kind of language? Your own fucking daughter}'
Winter reached out, closing his hand over hers. For once in his life he was serious.
'Listen, Mist. We found her in a doss house in Fratton. Someone had given her a thumping and tied her to a bed. You wouldn't have any idea who, would you?'
'Thumping?' Misty was trying to make sense of the word. 'My Trude?'
'That's right.' He watched Misty reach for the glass. 'What do you know about Dave Pullen?'
'He's a shag. At it all the time. He's a disgusting man.'
'I know. So what's Trude been doing with him? She's a good-looking girl. Christ, Mist, she could have the pick of blokes her own age — decent blokes, bit of education even. What did she ever see in an ape like Pullen?'
Misty blinked at him, the lightest touch on the brakes. She reached for the glass again, and emptied it.
'Mist…?'
'I dunno.'
'But you must have known, must have wondered.'
