PM tomorrow.'
'And?'
'I'd like your permission to tape it.'
'The post-mortem?'
'Yes. I'll need to talk to the coroner as well but your support will make that a great deal easier. And when you come down I'd like to do an interview.'
'With me?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Because we have to see this story through. We have to know where it ends. The post-mortem is part of it. That's where junk leads. To the mortuary, to the dissecting table, to all of that. And afterwards, of course, there'll be the funeral.'
'You want to tape that too?'
'Of course.'
'You said 'we' just now. Who's 'we'?'
'You and me, Mr. Kelly. I'm simply the messenger. You're his dad.
Together, I think we owe him.'
Another silence, even longer this time. Then Eadie bent to the phone again.
'This video will be selling into schools,' she said quietly. 'With some of the proceeds I'd like to propose a memorial fund in Daniel's name. I know this can't be easy for you, Mr. Kelly, but we have to make some sense of a tragedy like this. Not just for Daniel's sake but for the millions of other kids who might put themselves at risk. I know you understand that and I'm not asking for a decision now. May I call you back in a while? Once you've had a chance to think it over?'
The answer, when it came, was yes. Eadie smiled.
'Yes to phoning you back?'
'Yes to the post-mortem. And yes to all the rest of it.'
'You're sure about that?'
'I'm positive. I don't want another conversation like this in my life but I admire you for asking. Does that make sense?'
'Perfectly.' Eadie was still smiling. 'And thank you.'
Chapter eight
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 09.15
Faraday couldn't take his eyes off Martin Prebble. For some reason he'd expected Tumbril's forensic accountant to be older, greyer, and altogether more in keeping with the painstaking business of teasing a successful prosecution from a million and one pieces of paper. Instead, he found himself introduced to an exuberant figure in his late twenties with gelled hair, designer jeans, and an expensive-looking collarless shirt. Oddest of all was a circular purple blotch, the size of a five-pence coin, high on his forehead. Half close your eyes, and it might have been a caste mark.
'Paintballing,' Prebble explained at once. 'Mate's stag do last night.
Guy I was up against thought he'd pop me at point-blank range. He's an investment banker. Brain-dead since birth.'
'You're telling me it's permanent, honey?' It was Joyce arriving with a plate of chocolate biscuits, plainly concerned.
'Haven't a clue. Half an hour with a packet of frozen peas says no but I wouldn't rule out cosmetic surgery…' He reached up to help himself to one of the biscuits. 'Clever, though, eh? Tough shot from three feet.'
Brian Imber was waiting for the meeting to settle down. The space he'd cleared in the middle of the Tumbril conference table was promptly commandeered by Joyce. The way she bent low over Prebble, depositing the tray of coffees, told Faraday she'd fallen in love again. Young, good-looking, and funny. Never failed.
'We've got most of this morning.' Imber was looking at Prebble. 'Like I said on the phone, we need to get Joe up to speed.'
'No problem.' The words just made it through a mouthful of biscuit.
'My pleasure.'
Prebble, it turned out, had spent the early months of his involvement with Tumbril burying himself in every last shred of evidence until Mackenzie had become as familiar to him as a member of his own family.
Only with a picture this complete, he told Faraday, did he feel confident enough to apply the appropriate financial protocols — pursuing particular audit trails, leaning on conveyancers and the Land Registry for details of umpteen property transactions, chasing up invoices and bank payments in a bid to build a day-to-day profile of Mackenzie's expenditure, and thus get the measure of his real wealth.
Imber, recognising this young man's talent for getting inside the head of Tumbril's principal target, had decided to turn the entire briefing over to him. Only when it was absolutely necessary would he contribute thoughts of his own.
'Have you ever met Mackenzie?' Faraday was still watching Prebble.
'Never had the pleasure. I know him on paper figures mainly, intelligence files from Brian, surveillance snaps, gossip but that's pretty much it.'
'Informants?'
'Very little. Brian says that's unusual but my guess is these guys are tight with each other, always have been. That's what you breed down here. The place feels tribal to me.'
Faraday smiled. It was a shrewd judgement.
'And do you like what you see?'
'In some ways I do, yes. I'm an accountant. I know the way money works. This guy's been well advised, and more to the point he's listened. That's not always the case, believe me. I've done legitimate audits, big corporate stuff, where the guy behind the big desk listens to no one and blows a big hole in the bottom line.
Mackenzie's not like that. Most of the time he watches every penny.
He's a peasant at heart, and that's served him well. Plus, I understand he can be ruthless. Two reasons why he's a rich man.'
'How rich?'
'Last time we counted? Including all the nominee assets?' He frowned.
'Nine million four, give or take. And that's discounting narcotics in the pipeline, either on order or unsold.'
'You're telling me he's still dealing?'
'God, no. He's well past that. But analysis tells me he bankrolls others and takes a slice. It's standard practice, happens all over.
You get to a point where you can't be arsed with all the running around. Ten years ago, he might have been closer to the front line but the last couple of years he's been back in the chateau. Ninety-five per cent of what he's up to now is totally legit, just like any other businessman. Which I guess explains why I'm here.'
Faraday's attention had strayed to the big colour blow-up of Mackenzie's Craneswater mansion on the wall. Prebble was right. With a multi-million-pound business empire to look after, Mackenzie was far too busy to stoop to simple criminality. Hence Nick Hayder's contortions baiting the Spit Bank trap. Only by threatening his bid for the big time could Tumbril hope to manoeuvre Mackenzie into compromising himself.
Prebble said it was worth an hour or so just talking about Bazza, and apologised in advance if he was repeating what Faraday already knew.
Faraday waved the apology away. It was something of a relief to find someone who was prepared to walk him, step by step, through the entire story.
Mackenzie, Prebble explained, came from a Copnor family, a tight-knit area of terraced streets in the north- east corner of the city. His dad had been a welder in the dockyard and had scraped to get young Barry into St.
