fuss. Does that make things any easier?'
Eckersley didn't answer. Instead, he waited for the waitress to finish, then beckoned her over.
'Red or white wine?' He glanced across at Eadie with a sudden smile.
'My treat.'
Faraday parked his Mondeo outside the cathedral and walked the last fifty metres to the Pembroke. The pub stood on a corner on the main road out to Southsea and had won itself a reputation for reliable beer, home-cooked lunches, and an interesting clientele. Some evenings, you might find yourself drinking alongside half a dozen basses from the cathedral choir. Other nights, you'd be sharing the bar with an assortment of broken-nosed veterans from the Royal Naval field-gun crew.
DC Paul Winter was perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, engrossed in the midday edition of the News. The pub was busy, and to Faraday's surprise Winter didn't look out of place amongst the gathering of lunchtime drinkers, men of a certain age blunting the edges of the day with a pint or two before settling down to an afternoon of horse racing in front of the telly. Give Winter a couple of years, thought Faraday, and he might be doing this full time.
'Boss?' Winter had caught his eye and was semaphoring a drink.
'No, thanks.' Faraday barely touched the outstretched hand. 'I thought we might take a walk.'
Winter looked at him a moment, then drew his attention to the newspaper. The front page was dominated by a grainy photo showing the concourse at the town station. A couple of medics and a fireman were crouched over a body slumped beside one of the ticket barriers, while a handful of passengers waited patiently to get through. WELCOME TO POMPEY ran the headline.
'One of the punters had a digital camera in his briefcase.' Winter was buttoning his coat. 'Apparently Secretan's gone ballistic' 'Why?'
'You don't know about this morning? One of our Scouse friends?'
'Tell me.'
Winter eased himself off the bar stool, drained the remains of his pint, and shepherded Faraday towards the door. By the time they'd reached the se afront Faraday was up to speed.
'You're telling me the Cavalier belonged to the kid on the station?'
'Tenner says yes.'
'And the plate checks out with the Nick Hayder vehicle?'
'Scenes of Crime are all over it. They think there may be DNA residues around the offside headlamp. Won't know for certain until they've trucked it away for tests but I'll give you short odds on another yes.
That puts the Scouser in the shit. Big time.'
'We're talking Nick's DNA?'
'Yes.'
'So where's the Scouse kid now?'
'Still in hospital, as far as I know. Cathy Lamb's sorting some arrangement over protection.'
'From who?'
Winter stared at him. By now they were out on the fortifications, walking briskly towards the fun fair at Clarence Pier.
'Bazza Mackenzie mean anything to you, boss? Local guy? Made a bob or two out of the white stuff? Not fussed who knows it? Only a little bird tells me Bazza's not best pleased with our Scouse friends. Wants them out of town. Hence the lift to the station.'
'You can prove that?'
'Give me a couple of days,' Winter nodded, 'and the answer's yes. Not Bazza himself, of course, but a mate of his, Chris Talbot. We've got him on video, him and another fella, doing the business at the station.
That's the thing about Bazza nowadays, isn't it? Bit fussy about appearances. Can't stand the sight of blood. Shame, really. He was a good scrapper once.'
Both men had come to a halt on the wooden bridge that straddled the remains of the Spur Redoubt, the outermost edge of the ancient fortifications. From here on, the Pompey garrison would have been in no-man's land, at the mercy of events, an irony not lost on Faraday.
'You mentioned J-J on the phone,' Faraday said carefully. 'What's happened?'
Winter thought about the question, his hands on the wooden rail of the bridge. To Faraday, he'd always had a certain physical presence, a bluff matey self-confidence that had served him well over the years.
Winter was the DC you put into the cells at the Bridewell on a Monday morning, knowing he'd emerge with yet more recruits to his ever-swelling army of informants. And Winter, on a job that took his fancy, was a detective who had the wit and the experience to dream up an angle that would never have occurred to anyone else. In thief- taking terms, as Faraday had frequently pointed out to his exasperated bosses, the man was a priceless asset in any CID office.
Yet at the same time Winter was dangerous. He pledged his loyalty to no one and didn't care who knew it. Show him a weakness, any weakness, and he'd turn you inside out. Once, a couple of years back, he'd arrived uninvited at the Bargemaster's House, late at night, bewildered and distraught at what was happening to his dying wife. Joannie had inoperable cancer. The doctors were measuring her life in weeks. And Winter, in his rage and despair, had been utterly lost. For a couple of hours, over a bottle of Bell's, the two men had stepped out of their respective jobs and simply compared notes. Faraday knew about widowhood and had the scars to prove it. Winter, who'd never ceased to play the field when opportunities presented themselves, just couldn't contemplate a life without his precious Joannie. He'd let her down.
He'd taken her for granted. And now, all too suddenly, it was far, far too late to make amends.
That night, as Winter wandered away into the dark, Faraday had known they'd got as close to each other as two needful human beings ever can.
Since then, a dozen small betrayals had given the lie to those moments of kinship. Yet here he was, back on intimate territory, and Faraday wanted to know why.
Winter was describing the Crime Squad bust on Pennington Road.
Everything had gone to rat shit, he said, and they'd been playing catchup ever since.
'What's that got to do with my son?'
Winter eyed him for a moment, the look again, careful, appraising. He'd spent half his life climbing in and out of other people's heads — weighing up what they knew and what they didn't and Faraday knew he was doing it now.
'In this business, it pays not to be surprised,' he said at last. 'No surprises. Make a note. Stick it on my tombstone.'
'And?'
'You don't know, do you?'
'Know what?'
'About your boy.'
'No.' Faraday shook his head. 'I don't.'
Winter nodded, some deep intuitive suspicion confirmed, and then gazed out to sea again. Miles away, against the low hump of the Isle of Wight, a small, brown sail.
'OK, boss,' he said. 'This is off the record. We had obs on the Pennington Road premises yesterday afternoon, high profile. We're not bothering with court any more. The plan is to run these animals out of town.'
'We?'
'Me and a young lad, Jimmy Suttle.' He glanced at Faraday. 'Country boy. Not a problem.'
'And?'
'Your lad turned up at No. 30. That's the address we did the previous night.'
'You're telling me he was there to score?'
'It wasn't a social call.'
'You arrested him?'
'No. I sent Suttle after him. It's all intelligence-led these days, isn't it? All that cobblers? Anyway, Suttle followed him halfway across the city. You'll know where he went.'
'Hampshire Terrace?'
'Spot on. Ambrym Productions. The lovely Ms Sykes. Suttle hung around for a while, then I picked him
