showed a mottled brown bird, almost invisible against the backdrop of dead leaves and old bracken. Faraday got to his feet and joined him. He couldn't remember when Willard had last displayed the slightest interest in his private life.
'Nightjar,' he said. 'There was a family of them on the heath in the New Forest. With any luck, they'll be back in May.'
Willard nodded, scanning the rest of the photos.
'Still at it, then? You and our feathered friends?'
'Afraid so. Keeps me out of mischief.'
'Your boy still tag along? Only I remember he was pretty interested.'
'No.' Faraday shook his head. 'J-J's fled the nest, pretty much.'
'Off your hands, then?'
'I wouldn't say that.'
Willard glanced at his watch. The Tumbril meeting with Brian Imber was due to start in a couple of minutes. Imber might be waiting even now.
The Det-Supt nodded at the pad on Faraday's desk, then reached for the door handle.
'Mum's the word, eh? About Wallace?'
The parking in the commercial heart of Southsea was a nightmare. DC Jimmy Suttle took his chances on a double yellow, pulling the unmarked squad Fiesta behind a long line of cars. Beside him, Paul Winter was peering at a property across the road: big Georgian sash windows and a glimpse of a handsome porticoed entrance behind an encircling eight-foot wall. The walls of adjoining properties, equally grand, had been defaced with graffiti. On the wall across the road, not a mark.
'Bazza HQ.' Winter helped himself to another Werther's Original. 'Told you he'd come up in the world.'
The last time he'd paid a visit, a couple of years back, the place had been a gentlemen's club, a gloomy, shadowed echo of the dying days of empire. Run-down and barely used, Bazza had bought it for cash from the trustees, meaning to restore the interior to its former glory. Back in the nineteenth century, one of Southsea's premier families had lived here, a brewer who'd made his fortune slaking Pompey thirsts. A man with political ambitions, he'd ended up as the city's mayor, bringing a gruff, broad-chested impatience to deliberations in the council chamber. Mackenzie had evidently read a pamphlet or two about the man, sensing how shrewdly he'd turned business success to other ends, and rather fancied running his own commercial empire from within the same four walls. Craneswater was fine if you wanted a decent place to live, somewhere nice for the missus and kids, but the middle of Southsea was where you'd leave your real mark.
Suttle reached for his door handle. Chris Talbot also operated from the pile across the road. There were questions he needed to answer about the Scouse lad in the back of the Transit, about the abandoned Cavalier in Portsea.
'Wait.' Suttle felt Winter's hand on his arm.
Electronically controlled gates sealed the house off from the road. As they swung back, Suttle recognised the bulky figure in a leather jacket, pausing beside a low-slung Mercedes convertible. Chris Talbot.
'What's the problem?' Suttle had the door open now. 'Either we front up now or we lose him.'
'Wait,' Winter repeated.
Another figure appeared in the driveway beside the Mercedes. She was tall and blonde with wraparound shades and the kind of tan you couldn't buy from a salon. It was hard to be sure at fifty metres, but she didn't seem to be smiling.
'The lovely Marie,' Winter murmured. 'Bazza's missus.'
Talbot opened the boot. Marie handed him a bag, then checked her watch. Time was plainly moving on.
'OK.' Winter gave Suttle the nod. 'Let's go.'
They walked across the road. Talbot saw them coming. Winter stood in the drive, blocking the exit to the road.
'Christopher,' he said amiably. 'Thought we might have a chat.'
Talbot glanced at Marie, then circled the car. His shaved head was mapped with scars and a tiny silver cross hung from one ear lobe. His eyes, screwed up against the bright sunlight, were pouched with exhaustion and his face had a slightly yellowish tint. Once, thought Suttle, this bloke might have been good-looking.
'Well?' Winter wanted an answer.
'No chance.' Talbot nodded down at the car. 'Just off. Marie fancies a run out to Chichester.'
'Riding shotgun, are we? Keeping the Indians off?' Winter glanced up at the house, aware of a watching face at an upstairs window. 'We can either do it here or at our place. Your choice. The quicker we get it sorted, the sooner you get to Laura Ashley. So what's it to be?'
There was a sudden movement behind the car. Marie had produced a set of keys. Getting into the driver's seat revealed the extent of her tan.
'Where are you going?' Talbot bent down to her window.
'Chichester, where do you bloody think? You want to talk to these guys, that's fine by me.'
'Listen, Baz said '
'Fuck Baz.'
She gunned the engine, her face expressionless behind the windscreen and the designer shades. To Suttle's surprise, despite the language there wasn't a trace of Pompey in her accent.
Talbot bent to the driver's window again, then had second thoughts.
Looking up at the house, he put his hand to his mouth. The piercing whistle opened a window. A younger face leaned out.
'Chichester, son,' Talbot yelled. 'Marie needs company.'
'See?' Winter was beaming at Suttle. 'Apaches everywhere.'
Marie and her new escort gone, Winter and Suttle followed Talbot into the house. Winter, with a memory of cobwebbed windows and threadbare moquette, paused inside the gleaming front door, already impressed. A new- looking floor lapped at the edges of the enormous hall. A big chandelier hung from an elaborate ceiling rose. Even the air itself smelled of money.
'Bazza given up on pool?' Winter gestured at the golf bag propped beside the front door.
Talbot ignored him. An elegant staircase wound up towards the first floor. Winter paused beside the second of the framed pictures. Once, this staircase would have been lined with family portraits, specially commissioned in oils, the brewer's entire dynasty gazing down on visitors below. Now, each of these huge blow-up photos captured a moment at Fratton Park: Alan Knight palming a shot over the bar, Paul Merson at full throttle down the wing, Todorov lashing the ball into the net, the crowd erupting beyond him. There was even a shot of Alan Ball, the day Pompey last made it into the top division, his arm round his beaming chairman.
'This isn't a house,' Suttle muttered. 'It's a fucking shrine.'
Talbot led them to an office at the end of the top landing. The desk looked new and there was a gentle hum from the PC. Two filing cabinets flanked the big sash window. A coffee machine was bubbling on the table beside the desk and the year planner on the wall above was already thick with appointments stretching into early summer. In early June, five days were blocked off for Wimbledon.
'This yours, then?' Winter gestured round.
'Bazza's. He's away today.'
'What's this?' It was Suttle. He'd spotted a big French tricolour carefully draped on the back of the door. It was the one splash of colour amongst the muted greens and browns.
Talbot refused to answer. Winter was looking amused.
'Go on. The boy's a Saints fan. Tell him.'
Talbot shot Winter a look then sank into the chair behind the desk and helped himself to a coffee.
'Bollocks to that. You want to talk business, go ahead. If I want a social chat I can think of better company.'
Winter was eyeing the percolator.
'Just the one sugar will be fine.'
'Help yourself.'
'I will. James?'
Suttle still wanted to know about the flag. At length, the coffees poured, Winter filled in the details. Back in
