in his head. For the first time in his life, he thought he understood the meaning of sound.
Today, though, was different. Halfway up the hill, exhausted, he'd got off and pushed, head down, walled off from the press of traffic on the main road north. Now and again, a juggernaut would shoulder past, a sudden buffeting and the stink of diesel, but J-J was oblivious. All he could think of, all that mattered, were the images he'd seen. First in the camera's viewfinder. Then in Eadie's office. The stuff he hadn't shot the spoon, the syringe, the needle, Daniel Kelly's stumbling path to bed had lodged at the very front of his brain, billboard-huge, the most public of accusations. You helped kill this sad, sad man. You helped kill him as surely as if you'd loaded a gun and handed it across. You delivered the money, arranged the delivery, took advantage of his distress, and walked away. Could any other betrayal be as damning — and as terminal as that?
Sprawled on the grass at the top of the hill, J-J didn't know. After a while, trying to make sense of the last twenty-four hours, he propped himself on his elbows and gazed down at the city spread before him.
Familiar landmarks. The gleaming spread of the harbour. The looming greyness of the naval dockyard. Beetle-sized cars, racing along the motorway that looped into the city. He'd lived with these images for longer than he could remember yet today they seemed cold and alien, a sudden glimpse of life on a distant planet. How come a couple of guys from Pennington Road had killed Daniel Kelly? And how come he'd let himself become part of all that?
The longer he thought about it, the more important he knew it was to try and make some kind of decision. Events had marooned him, washed him up in a place he hated, and it was time he took charge again. Maybe he should pack a rucksack, hop on a ferry, and have another crack at France. Or maybe he should sit down with his dad, explain the whole thing, and see where the conversation led. His dad, to his certain knowledge, would insist on the truth coming out. That J-J, his precious bloody son, had stolen up on a man standing on the edge of his own grave, tapped him on the shoulder, then given him that final nudge.
Yuk.
J-J lay on his back, his eyes closed, soaking up the thin warmth of the early spring sunshine until another idea began to take shape, a stroke so bold that it hit him with an almost physical impact. A couple of years back, he'd spent some time with a young kid called Doodie.
There'd been lots wrong with Doodie's world, much of it Doodie's fault, but J-J had always been amazed by the straightness of the lines this gutsy little ten-year-old had been able to draw. Given a situation like this, the last thing he'd do was lie around on Portsdown Hill feeling sorry for himself. No, if there were debts to be settled, wrongs to be righted, then actions would speak louder than words. J-J turned the phrase over in his mind, realising with a jolt of pleasure that it had governed his entire life. Actions, not words. Gesture, not language.
Pleased with himself, he thought about the idea a little more. Then he got to his feet, brushed himself down, hauled the Ridgeback upright, and set off down the hill.
Chapter ten
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 12.00
Faraday found himself alone at Tumbril HQ on Whale Island. The Mackenzie briefing over, Imber and the young accountant had driven into the city for a meeting with a senior clearing-bank executive with access to Mackenzie's five accounts, while Joyce was over at the HMS Excellent mess, looking for a pint of milk.
Faraday stood at the window, watching a squad of young recruits jogging past. There was a PTI behind them, rounding up the strays, and the sight of the instructor falling into step behind the worst of the laggards brought memories of his own induction course flooding back.
Twenty-five years ago, probationer PCs in Faraday's entry found themselves under the tender care of a burly prop forward who swore that rugby was the shortest cut to heaven. Faraday himself had never been keen on team games but he cycled a lot because it was cheap and knew he was as fit as anyone else in the group. Keeping up with the rest of the pack had therefore been no problem but now, watching the tail-ender redden under the lash of the PTI, he marvelled at how simple the world had then appeared.
At twenty-three, he couldn't wait to get out on the beat. The law, to his faint surprise, was a living thing, continually in the process of change, but once you understood the basic principles and memorised a hundred or so pages of detailed legislation, then applying the thrust of all those weighty clauses seemed on the face of it pretty straightforward. You were there to keep the peace, to safeguard life and property, to protect people from their own worst instincts. Little of this optimism survived his first year in uniform policing was rarely as black and white as he'd imagined but not once had he anticipated ending up heading an operation as complex and inward-looking as Tumbril. What kind of justice required an investigation to be as covert, as walled-off, as this? Of whom were the handful of senior officers in the know really frightened?
At the end of his profile of Bazza Mackenzie, the young accountant had passed Faraday a slender spiral- bound file that summarised his progress to date. With the aid of seized documentation deposit slips, bank accounts, financial transfer instructions he'd laid out a series of audit trails, mapping the sheer reach of Mackenzie's commercial empire.
Referenced and cross-referenced, each of these audit trails dealt with a particular asset a car, a property, a bank account, a business — proving to any jury that real ownership, behind a thousand financial transactions and a small army of relatives, friends, and professional advisers, still lay with Mackenzie. In this way item by item, page by page, Prebble was slowly building a bonfire of Mackenzie's carefully hidden assets, millions of pounds' worth of ill-gotten gains. All Faraday would have to do was provide the spark proof positive that Mackenzie had broken the law and the whole lot would go up in flames.
That way, as Imber kept reminding everyone, we'll really hurt the guy.
And not just him, either, but the handful of high-profile professional advisers who'd flagged his path to the big time.
Faraday stepped away from the window, only too aware of the pressures which had driven Nick Hayder to the brink. Pulling in a u/c officer and seeding a head-to-head with Mackenzie was undeniably clever. But the very boldness of a stroke like this smacked to Faraday of desperation. By being so successful, Mackenzie had made himself virtually impregnable. He had powerful friends. He'd established himself in legitimate business. He'd become, in one of Prebble's laconic asides, the living proof that capitalism works. Some guys built their fortunes on a string of patents. Others dreamed up a brilliant marketing idea. With Bazza Mackenzie it just happened to be cocaine. But who could prove it?
Faraday's mobile began to chirp. He didn't recognise the number. For a moment or two he was tempted to ignore it. Then he had second thoughts.
'Paul Winter. Am I interrupting anything?'
'No. How can I help you?'
'I don't want to talk about it on the phone. Lunch any good? Pie and a pint?'
'Now? Today?' Faraday could see the mountain of files awaiting his attention on the desk across the office.
'Yeah. Sorry about the short notice but you'll be glad you came.'
'Why?'
'It's about your boy.'
'J-J?'
'Yeah.'
'What's happened?'
'Nothing… yet. Still and West? Quarter to one?'
Faraday glanced at his watch. Half two he was due for yet another meeting with Willard and Imber. Until then, his time was his own.
He bent to the phone again. Three years as DIon division had taught him a great deal about Paul Winter. Rule number one was never trust the man. Rule number two was never ignore him. The Still and West was a pub in Old Portsmouth, overlooking the harbour narrows. The last time Faraday had paid a visit, the place had been full of journalists.
'Let's make it the Pembroke. I'll be there for twelve forty-five.'
