the eighties, a boatload of fans had taken the early ferry to Le Havre to supply a bit of Pompey support in a cross- Channel pre-season friendly. Pre-warned about the 6.57, the French police had refused to let the blue army off the boat.
Mid morning, already pissed, dozens of them jumped overboard and swam across the harbour to dry land. After a while, the gendarmes gave up and let the rest off. Big mistake.
'Why?'
'Rape and pillage. The game didn't start until the afternoon and Le Havre's full of bars. Worse still, it's full of Frenchmen. Not their fault, no offence, but the Pompey weren't having it. Trashed the place. Just trashed it. Then they all jumped in a load of cabs and went off to the game. Place called Honfleur down the coast. Used to have a nice little ground till our lot took it apart. Got the game abandoned, too. The Goths had nothing on the 6.57. Eh, Chris?'
'And this thing?' Suttle nodded at the flag.
'That was afterwards, the way I heard it. Bazza came across a bar they'd missed first time round. The name of the place was the real wind-up.'
What was it called?'
'Cafe de Southampton. The flag was out front, only bit to survive.'
Winter chuckled to himself, then poured more coffee. At length, Talbot yawned.
'You going to get on with this or what? Only some of us have a living to make.'
'Of course.'
Winter put his coffee to one side and produced his pocketbook. Talbot and his mate had been clocked at the station at half past two in the morning. What happened before then?
Talbot pushed the chair back from the desk and stretched his legs. Then he clasped his hands behind his neck and gazed up at the ceiling.
'You want it all?'
'Please.'
'OK. We were down in Gunwharf. Few bevvies. Quiet for a Wednesday.'
'Time?'
'Late. Forty Below chucks out at two. Must have been around then, give or take. Then we wandered back to the motor, you know, the way you do.'
'We?'
'Me and Steve Pratchett.'
'He works for Bazza?'
'He's a subbie plasterer.'
'Where do we find him?'
'Haven't a clue.'
'Doesn't he have an address?'
'Bound to.'
'Mobile?'
'Always binning them. It's a credit scam. He's always after a new model. He can't stand purple. Fuck knows.'
'So what happened?'
'The van was parked round the back of the Keppel's Head. We're driving back through Portsea, middle of the fucking night, and we see this mush hanging out of a Cavalier. At first I think he's pissed. Then we get close, right alongside like, and shit you should have seen the state of him.'
'Pre-damaged?'
'What?'
'Forget it. You stopped?'
'Of course we did. The bloke was spark out, blood all over his face, his T-shirt, everywhere, right beating. Then he comes round, moaning and groaning, and he must have thought it was us that did the damage because he starts thrashing around like you wouldn't believe.'
'You're kidding…' Winter shook his head. 'You do the damage?'
'Exactly. Anyway, me and Steve do our best to clean him up, then we ask where he'd like us to take him.'
'Home would have been a good answer.'
'Yeah, but he doesn't say that, does he? He wants to go to the railway station. He's had enough of Pompey. He wants to get the fuck out.'
'The station's shut.'
'That's what we told him. Made no difference. There he is, bleeding all over us, and all he can talk about is the fucking timetable.'
Talbot rubbed his face, then yawned again. 'In the end, we did what he wanted, took him to the station. Closest we could get was the ticket barrier. Never even said thank you.'
'And the handcuffs?'
'What handcuffs?'
'You're telling me you didn't handcuff him to the barrier?'
'No fucking way. Why would I do a thing like that?'
Winter knew there was no point pursuing the charge. While he had absolutely no doubt that handcuffs were part of the tableau, the camera angle had masked the detail.
'What about the wraps?'
'Wraps?'
'We found half a dozen wraps in the Cavalier. Smack.' Winter took a sip of coffee. 'Didn't plant them yourself, did you? Only that would have been a kindness.'
'Who to?'
'Us. We want these guys out of the city as much as you do.'
'Really?' Talbot's interest was at last engaged. 'Shame you haven't nicked them, then. You try fucking hard enough with the rest of us.'
'Is that right?' Winter sounded positively hurt. 'You're sitting here on half a million quid's worth and you're telling me we've spoiled your party?'
'Not yet. But you'd like to.'
'How does that work, then? Are we talking busts here? Street level?
Half a dozen scrotes with a gram or two between them? That kind of aggro Bazza wouldn't even notice.'
'You know what I'm talking about.'
'I do?' Winter looked mystified. 'Help me out at all, Jimmy?'
Suttle shook his head. He was making notes in his pocketbook. Later, when Winter had finished, he'd take a formal statement.
Winter was brooding over this latest bend in the conversational road.
He'd heard rumours about some covert operation being mounted against a major player in the city but he'd always put all this down to propaganda from the guys at headquarters who had worries about force morale. If no one had ever managed to lay a finger on Bazza Mackenzie, then it would be nice to pretend that someone was at least trying. But maybe, for once, the rumours were true.
'Tell me more' he said at length 'then we might leave you alone.'
'You have to be joking. That's me done.'
'Worried about Bazza? Speaking out of turn?'
'Fuck off.'
'My pleasure.' Winter held his gaze for a moment, then produced a card from his wallet. 'When's the great man back?'
'Baz? Late this afternoon.'
'Good.' Winter slipped the card onto the desk. 'My mobile's on there.
Tell him to bell me if he fancies it. Tonight would be good. The telly's awful.'
It took less than ten minutes for Faraday to turn the Tumbril meeting into a head-to-head with Willard. Brian
