cavities. Protected from the possibility of routine stop searches, Valentine had been importing hundreds of thousands of pounds' worth of Mackenzie drugs into the city.
'We put all this together from the covert. We had a transmitter in his office and a Home Office warrant on his landline.'
'He was talking to Mackenzie?'
'Never. It was all done through lieutenants, people we can tie to Bazza.'
'And?'
'We let it run for a while. Like I say, none of it ever went anywhere near Mackenzie, give or take a bit of personal, so we hadn't got a prayer there. Then Willard came under pressure for some kind of result so we plotted an interception. Just to keep them on their toes.'
'When was this?'
'Just before Christmas. Headquarters were final ising the budgets for the next financial year and Willard knew we had a case to make.'
'So what happened?'
'Nothing. It was a Mercedes, nice motor. We pulled it over just south of Petersfield. Three traffic cars plus the tail from London. Bloke at the wheel had been working for Valentine for a year. Claimed to know nothing.'
'The air-bag cavities?'
'Full of air bag. Complete mystery. The intelligence was good, we knew that. The covert was still live. We knew the dates of the incoming consignment, the pick-up point, the lot. We were looking at a couple of kilos, a serious seizure. That car was in bits once the vehicle boys had finished with it. Not a trace.'
'So why did it go wrong?'
'Good question.'
'Was the covert still live afterwards?'
'Briefly. The next day Valentine was on the landline to Bazza. Old mates. Told him the whole story, how a car of his got pulled over, towed away, the lot. Never mentioned drugs once.'
'And Mackenzie?'
'Laughed like a drain.'
'Sending a message, then. For your benefit.'
'Big time. Both the transmitter and the intercept went dead within minutes. You can imagine what a Christmas bash we had.'
Faraday was gazing out of the window. Beyond the ferry port, a thin plume of dirty smoke was rising from the funnel of a moored frigate. A knock-back like that could slow an investigation to walking pace, he thought. No wonder Nick Hayder had kept the Spit Fort sting to himself.
'So where are we now?' he asked quietly.
'Bazza's got to where he wants to be.' It was Prebble again. 'Amanda Gregory runs the business side. She's organised it like any medium-sized enterprise. Property-wise, she's got a guy heading rental collections and another one in charge of scouting for new acquisitions.
As far as cafe-bars, tanning salons, and the rest of it are concerned, that's all down to Bazza's wife. Let's call these three people line managers. They report in to Gregory, and she runs all the major decisions past Bazza. Because Bazza's not stupid, he pretty much agrees with everything she says, puts ticks in her boxes, sorts her out a profit-share at the end of the year. As a business structure, it's textbook stuff. Bazza files his accounts and pays his taxes. Give him a year or two, and he'll probably be running the Rotary Club.'
Faraday was watching an ensign unfurling on the stern of the frigate.
Worse and worse, he thought.
'So where's the good news?'
'There's new legislation. Under the Proceeds of Crime Act, we'll be able to do him for money laundering. That has always been an option but until now we've had to tie him to a specific narcotics offence before the confiscation powers kick in. With the POCA, we can make a case, seize his assets, and then it's down to him to show us where they all came from.'
'And you think that's possible?'
'Definitely. And it goes way beyond Mackenzie. He's stashed millions away by buying into properties and businesses and God knows what else, and he couldn't have done any of that without the guys in the suits.
You need conveyancing. You need binding contracts. You need the mortgages they never serviced. You need to get into all that legal crap. Believe me, there are solicitors in this city who should be packing their bags.'
'You're serious?'
'Absolutely. Screw Mackenzie under the Proceeds of Crime Act, nail him on a money-laundering offence, and the guys in the suits — solicitors, accountants have some tough questions to answer. They're supposed to blow the whistle on dodgy transactions, and if they don't then they're in the shit as well. Believe me, there's nowhere left to hide.'
Prebble paused. 'The way to hurt people like Bazza is to attack their money. If we can make a money- laundering charge stick and nick the money back off him, we've scored a result.'
'What would he pull for money laundering?' Faraday glanced across at Imber.
'That depends, Joe. He could be looking at fourteen years. But Martin's right. It's the money he cares about. For why? Because this bloody man's spent his whole life stealing a march on the rest of us.
That's what's put him where he is. That's what's given him the big house, and the cars, and the lifestyle, and the reputation. Take that away, and you're left with a punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor. You hear about his daughter's wedding? The lovely Esme?'
Faraday shook his head. He ought to get out more, he thought.
Joyce was on her feet again. Another sheaf of photos. Faraday peered down at the first of the shots. An enormous group of men and women were standing in the sunshine. Mackenzie was in the middle, a short, squat figure bursting out of his suit and tails. Beside him, clamped to one arm, was the pretty blonde bride, her veil flung back, beaming at the camera. Faraday recognised the Cathedral in the background.
Joyce was bending over Faraday, doing the introductions, one technicolour nail moving lightly from face to face. Relatives.
Extended family. Mates from the old days. Mike Valentine. The owner of Gunwharf's biggest nightclub. Two solicitors. Amanda Gregory. An architect. Two members of the Pompey first team. The general manager of the city's biggest hotel. A research fellow from the university's criminology department. A journalist from the sports pages of the News. The list went on and on, a tally of Portsmouth's finest.
There was a long silence. Prebble's fingers had strayed to the purpled blotch on his forehead. Imber was still gazing at the photograph. The two men were waiting for Faraday's reaction. Finally he glanced up at Joyce.
'No coppers?' he enquired drily.
Chapter nine
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 10.00
It was DC Suttle's first visit to the city's CCTV control room, a windowless, slightly claustrophobic bunker in the Civic Centre. He stood behind the duty shift leader, staring up at the banks of colour monitors racked side by side while Paul Winter negotiated two cups of coffee and a generous plateful of custard creams.
'There. See what I mean?'
The shift leader was demonstrating the reach of a new zoom lens on one of the CCTV cameras in the Commercial Road shopping precinct. A lifelong member of the Seventh Day Adventist church, he'd developed an obsession with the collapse of morality in the city. Portsmouth was awash with teenage mums and here was the living proof.
Suttle found himself looking at a nubile young girl pushing a double buggy. Her skintight T-shirt stopped two inches above the waistband of her jeans and the piercings in the adolescent roundness of her belly gleamed in the chill March sunshine.
'Nice,' he murmured. 'What about her mate?'
