Imber had reported back from his visit to Mackenzie's bank. Bazza, he announced with a frown, had ordered the sale of a penthouse flat in Gunwharf. The property, on a prime harbour side site, was on the market at 695,000. 'There has to be a reason,' Imber puzzled. 'Has to be.' Faraday wanted to help out but knew he couldn't. In all probability, Mackenzie was raising cash against the purchase of Spit Bank Fort, proof positive that he'd taken Nick Hayder's carefully laid bait, but a single glance at Willard produced a tiny shake of the head. Any mention of Graham Wallace or the fort was still off-limits in front of Brian Imber. Strictly need to know. At least for now.
Willard steered the meeting onto safer ground. He wanted to know the status of Prebble's input, how far the accountant had got, how soon Willard could expect a totally reliable statement of the assets under Mackenzie's control. Faraday knew this information was important. The moment they managed to tie Mackenzie to a specific criminal offence proven in a court of law was the moment the confiscation process kicked in. From that point on, it would be down to Mackenzie to justify his legal ownership of every one of those assets, a challenge — in Prebble's view that would be beyond him. In this sense, as Imber kept reminding him, Tumbril had turned the investigative process on its head. First Prebble calculated how much they could nick back off the man. Then they looked for a specific charge that would stand up in court.
The latter, as far as Faraday could fathom, was the real problem.
Trapping a criminal as well protected as Mackenzie was a near-impossibility, and only a detective as driven and original as Nick Hayder would even be minded to try. In the shape of Spit Bank Fort he'd come up with a big fat plum that Mackenzie just might be tempted to scrump but in Faraday's view the odds against a successful sting were stilll high, not least because Tumbril despite Hayder's best efforts was itself far from secure.
An incoming phone call drew Willard to his desk. When he returned to the conference table, Faraday brought up the pre-Christmas intercept.
Mike Valentine's Mercedes had been stopped and searched en route back from London. The plan had been hatched and overseen by the Tumbril team, albeit with substantial input from other units. There was overwhelming evidence that the Mercedes was carrying substantial quantities of cocaine. Yet the full search found nothing.
'And your point is…?' Willard sounded testy. This was old ground.
'My point is someone leaked. Told Valentine. Told Mackenzie. Maybe not directly. Maybe it went through different hands. But either way it got there in the end. Hence the fact we drew a blank.'
'We know that. And it's been addressed.'
'How?'
It was a direct challenge. Willard, to his obvious irritation, couldn't duck it.
'Listen, Joe. We've always known from the start that Tumbril was basically an audit operation. It's paper- based, figures-based. That's how far the budget stretches and even then, believe me, we've barely got enough. The moment we want to spread our wings, mount an operation, scoop someone up, we have to widen the circle, bring in the specialists covert, surveillance, whatever. There's no way, short of the Good Fairy, we can do anything else.'
'Of course.' Faraday nodded. 'But has anyone asked the hard questions about the intercept? Drawn up a list of names? People who knew?
People who might have' he shrugged 'leaked?'
'I did.' It was Imber.
'And?'
'How long is a piece of string? We needed Special Ops for the covert.
That's a couple of blokes, minimum. Surveillance? Maybe half a dozen more. Say ten in all. It's maths, Joe. Each of these guys has mates.
Each of those mates has more mates. Suddenly you're into half the force. The miracle is, we're still reasonably watertight, at least as far as the paperwork is concerned.' He paused. 'Did you know about Whale Island?'
'No.'
'Well, then…'
Faraday accepted the point with a curt nod. He was still curious to explore exactly what had happened back before Christmas but at least he now understood Willard's determination to keep Wallace and the u/c operation under wraps. Quite how Imber would react when he discovered he'd been out of the loop was anyone's guess but that, he told himself, would be Willard's problem.
'You want to answer that?' Willard drew Faraday's attention to his mobile. Faraday glanced at the number. Cathy Lamb.
'Do you mind, sir?'
'Go ahead.'
Faraday stood up and retreated to the far end of the office. Behind him, Imber was still pressing Willard about the Gunwharf flat. Faraday paused beside the window, gazing out through a gap in the Venetian blinds. From the tone of Cathy's voice, he knew at once that it was bad news. J-J, she said, had been arrested at a petrol station in North End. Word that he was wanted had been out for several hours but he'd fallen into their laps after a call from the forecourt manager.
J-J had been acting suspiciously beside one of the pumps. He'd filled an empty two-litre bottle with unleaded and appeared to have no intention of paying. Control had dispatched an area car less than a minute away and after a brief chase J-J had been detained.
Faraday closed his eyes.
'Chase?'
'He legged it, Joe. And I understand there was a bit of a fracas.'
'Is he OK?'
'Upset. I've talked to the Custody Sergeant at Central and he's aware of the situation. We've taken the case over from division because of the Scouse involvement but Highland Road have volunteered Rick Stapleton and Alan Moffat to handle the interview. I understand from Winter that you pretty much know the circumstances. Daniel Kelly? The student who died last night?'
Faraday was following a flock of racing pigeons as they wheeled over the nearby rooftops. Head north, he thought, and leave all this chaos behind you.
He bent to the phone.
'What's the charge?'
'There isn't one. Not yet. We're waiting on interview.'
'What about someone who knows sign?'
'The Custody Sergeant's phoning through the names on the qualified interpreter register. So far, he's drawn a blank.' She paused. 'It may have to be you, Joe. We can't wait forever.'
'Great.' Faraday glanced at his watch, realising there was no point prolonging the conversation. Like it or not, Willard had to know. He thanked Cathy for the call and returned to the table. Willard knew at once that something had happened.
'OK?'
'Afraid not, sir.' Faraday offered him a bleak smile. 'Know a good solicitor?'
Within the hour, Faraday was ringing the entry phone at Central police station. A uniformed PC let him in and the duty Inspector emerged from an office up the corridor. From deep in the building came the rattle of bars and a yell from someone desperate for a fag. To Faraday's relief, it didn't sound the least like J-J.
'Your boy's in the cells. I'm afraid he's still cuffed.'
'Is that necessary?'
'I'm afraid so. He's been' the Inspector was choosing his words carefully 'less than helpful.'
Faraday nodded. He wanted to know whether Hartley Crewdson had arrived. For the time being, J-J could wait.
'We've put him in one of the interview rooms. You want tea or anything?'
'No, thanks.'
Faraday followed the Inspector to the suite of interview rooms. Hartley Crewdson was a solicitor with a successful criminal practice in the north of the city. He specialised in defence work, representing a never-ending stream of young tearaways from the Paulsgrove and Leigh Park estates. Faraday had never had personal dealings with him before but was aware of the man's reputation. Half the DCs in the city thought Crewdson was a menace.
