up.'
'And that was it? You didn't stop the boy? Search him?'
'No, boss. I thought' he shrugged, hunching a little deeper into his anorak 'it was better to give you a bell.'
'Why?'
'Because I owe you.'
'Really?'
'Yeah. You're a funny bugger sometimes but I think you've got more bollocks than most of the twats I've known in your job. That make any sense?'
Faraday was conscious of a flooding warmth. With an effort, he kept the smile off his face.
'None,' he said. 'Are we done now?'
'Not quite.'
'There's more?'
'I'm afraid so.' He turned from the railing and looked Faraday in the eye. 'How come I'm the one telling you this?'
'Telling me what?'
'About your boy. After we left him, he went to Old Portsmouth. Your lady friend's making some kind of video. J-J must have taken the gear with him. They taped a student shooting up, then fucked off. Which is a shame, really.'
'Why?'
'The student died.'
For a long moment, Faraday lost his concentration. After Hampshire Terrace, he'd followed this sequence of events step by step, no surprises, matching Winter's laconic account against the images he'd seen on Eadie's rushes. He knew J-J had been behind the camera. He'd explored the criminal implications of their presence at the flat. But not for a moment had he expected the punchline.
'Died?' he said numbly.
'Inhalation of vomit. I've seen the paperwork. The gear must have been extra-special.'
'Who discovered the body?'
'An ex-girlfriend. Apparently she'd helped set up the interview in the first place.'
'When did she find out?'
'Round eleven, eleven thirty. She'd gone round to kiss him goodnight.
Bit late as it turned out.'
'Do you have a name for the girlfriend?'
'Sarah somebody. Bev's picked it up from Dawn. Dawn was duty last night.'
Sarah. Faraday closed his eyes, rocking slowly on his heels, picturing Eadie retreating into her bedroom at the flat as he made his own exit for work. Sarah had been on the phone first thing. Eadie, the woman he slept with, trusted, loved even, had kept this appalling secret for half a day and said absolutely nothing. Not a phone call. Not an e-mail. Not a cautionary heads-up. Nothing.
Faraday swallowed hard, battling to get the next few hours into perspective. He knew the investigative machine by heart, every working part. A heroin overdose. Dodgy gear. A video camera tracking the prospective corpse to bed. And now evidence from two DCs on the exact provenance of the killer wrap. Open and shut case. Collusion in procuring Class A drugs. Plus a possible manslaughter charge. With his own son in the dock.
'Who's holding the file?'
'Bev Yates.'
'Does he know about' Faraday gestured loosely at the space between them 'this?'
'No, boss.'
'OK.' Faraday nodded, stepping away. 'Then tell him.'
Chapter eleven
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 14.11
Faraday was still waiting for the phone to ring when Willard stepped into his office. He'd left several voice messages on all Eadie's numbers and a curt text on J-J's mobile. Neither had called back.
'We need to talk before Brian Imber gets here.' Willard shut the door.
'You've got a moment?'
'Help yourself.' Faraday nodded at the spare chair.
'I was up at HQ this morning. Had a session with Terry Alcott. He wants us to move Tumbril along. He's not saying so but the pressure must be coming from the top. That's the way I read it.'
Faraday was eyeing the telephone. Terry Alcott was the Assistant Chief Constable responsible for CID and Special Operations, an impressive operator with a long Met pedigree. A respected voice on several national policing bodies, he was one of the few senior officers privy to the inner workings of Tumbril.
'He's still on side 'Absolutely. But I think he's getting nervous about the funding. Wants a scalp or two, something to put on the Chief's desk. That girl in the media unit was on to me just now. She's been fielding calls from the national press about the incident on the station this morning, wanted a steer. I said talk of turf wars was totally inappropriate. This is Pompey. Not the West Midlands.'
'And you believe that?'
'Of course not. And neither does Terry Alcott. Which is why you need to have a word with Graham Wallace.'
Faraday turned the proposition over for a moment or two. Nick Hayder had been carefully developing the Spit Bank Fort sting for the best part of three months. So far, it had worked like a dream. Why let a flurry of press interest hazard the end game 'The next move is Mackenzie's,' he said. 'That's the way Nick planned it.'
'I realise that. What I'm asking you to do is look at the script again, have a chat with Wallace, see whether we can't put a bit more pressure on Mackenzie. One way or another we have to be seen to be on top of this, ahead of the game. That's Terry Alcott talking, not me.'
Faraday pulled a pad towards him and scribbled a note. If the media were getting excited about a Scouser shackled to a ticket barrier, what would they make of a DI's son charged with manslaughter?
'You hear about the Cavalier?' Willard had treated himself to a rare smile. 'The one that did Nick Hayder?'
'Yes.'
'Nice one, eh? Do Cathy Lamb a power of good. All we need now is the other little bastard in the car and we can put them both away.
Attempted murder, possession with intent to supply, you're looking at a fair old stretch.'
'We can evidence the supply charge?'
'Scenes of Crime found half a dozen wraps in the glove box Whoever said Scousers were bright?' Willard chuckled, then got to his feet.
'News from the hospital, by the way. Nick's back with us again.
Recovered consciousness last night.'
'How is he?'
'Groggy. Can't remember anything about the incident and not a lot before that. They'll be doing more tests this afternoon.'
'He's still in Critical Care?'
'For the time being. But the bloke I talked to thought they'd probably be transferring him to a regular ward as soon as they'd got a bed.
Might pop up there this evening, see if he remembers me.' He glanced back at Faraday. 'Fancy it?'
'Of course.' Faraday was still thinking about J-J. Sooner or later he'd have to level with Willard, tell him exactly what had happened, but there seemed little point before he could raise either Eadie or his son.
'What's this, then?' Willard was pointing at one of the photos on the cork board over Faraday's desk. It
