you weren't solely at the mercy of events, played wonderfully with the more gullible politicians.
Harry Wayte, across the table, caught Faraday's eye. Faraday, who hadn't seen him for a while, was shocked by how much older he looked.
Since his days as a Chief Petty Officer in the navy, Harry had made no secret of his fondness for decent Scotch. In the job, over the years, he'd won himself a reputation as a good solid cop and weathered more than his share of crises but the booze had never been a problem. Now though, with his watery blue eyes and vein-mapped face, he looked truly wrecked.
'All right, Harry?'
'Never better, Joe. You?'
'You want the short answer? My boy's in deep shit. The job's a bastard. And I haven't seen anything interesting with wings since the weekend before last. Apart from that' Faraday spread his hands wide 'life's a peach.'
'I heard about your boy.'
'Really?'
'Yeah, along with every other copper I know. Funny how bad news gets round quickest, isn't it? Drink later? Upstairs at lunchtime? It's my birthday.'
Faraday nodded a yes, then Secretan and the DCI who acted as Crime Manager for the city stepped into the room and the buzz around the table began to die. Faraday had never seen the Chief Superintendent in action before but was already impressed by the framed colour shots on the wall above Secretan's desk. He'd heard from others that this man kept a regular date with some of the UK's more challenging mountains, week-long expeditions to the Cuillins and some of the tougher Welsh peaks, but if these rain-soaked, fog-shrouded walls of sheer granite were scalps on his belt then he already had Faraday's undivided attention. Finding a perch halfway up a mountain for some serious birding was one thing; conquering monsters like the Cuillins, quite another.
Secretan began with a brief update on what he called the developing situation. He spoke with a soft, West Country burr which did nothing to mask his irritation at the recent turn of events. After a period of relative calm, outsiders had decided to rock Pompey's little boat. Some of them, as everyone knew, came from Merseyside. Attempts at repatriation had so far failed completely. Others, according to Met Intelligence, were expected any day from Brixton and other areas of south London. These guys, largely West Indian, were driven by the prospects of selling into a largish and quickly expanding market. The size of the policing challenge, said Secretan, was best expressed in simple figures. The price of an ounce of cocaine in London was currently 1700. In Portsmouth, dealers would expect a 10 per cent premium. Supply and demand. Obvious.
There was a murmur of agreement around the table. None of this was news, but Secretan, in his understated way, had summed it up rather well. He turned to Willard. They were all busy men, and time was precious, but it was important to avoid investigative chaos one inquiry overlapping with another and to this end he'd asked the Det-Supt to establish a clear demarcation in terms of ongoing operations. The last thing anyone needed just now was dozens of blokes getting in each other's way.
Willard nodded. Faraday knew already that he rated Secretan, a rare accolade from someone as driven and unforgiving as Willard, and Faraday sensed at once that the two men were in virtual lockstep.
'We'll start with Nick Hayder,' he said. 'We've had a decent squad on what happened to Nick, and there's no question in my mind that it was drugs related. What Nick was doing there that night is still a mystery, and to be frank we might never get to the bottom of it. It might have been pure chance, though knowing Nick I doubt it. Either way, a senior police officer is seriously injured, seriously ill, and that's totally unacceptable. Thanks to some quality detective work from Cathy Lamb's squad, we've had a bit of a breakthrough. Cathy?'
Cathy Lamb took up the story. A couple of her guys had traced a stolen Cavalier. Early indications from forensic tests on the vehicle suggested that the car might well have been used to run down Nick Hayder. A Merseyside youth hospitalised in a separate incident had been DNA-tied to the car and was now under armed guard in the QA hospital.
'For whose benefit?' It was Secretan.
'Ours,' Cathy conceded at once. 'And his, too.'
'So are we suggesting the boy in hospital is down for Nick Hayder?'
'Yes, sir. But a witness who saw the car arrive puts another youth in the front. And we've yet to find him.'
'Leads?'
'A few. Nothing that excites me.'
Secretan nodded at the DCI by his side, who made a note. Then he looked across at Willard.
'So who's driving the Hayder inquiry? Major Crimes? Cathy's squad?'
'Cathy. Under my supervision.'
'You're SIO?' — ,-vp arnuncj are Cathy's.'
'Fine. So where does that leave the Major Crimes Team? As far as this discussion is concerned?'
It was a pertinent question and Faraday bent forward to be sure of catching Willard's answer. In reality, of course, Tumbril was a Major Crimes operation, albeit at arm's length.
'Nowhere, sir.' Willard was looking down the table at Secretan. 'If you want a list of ongoing operations, I'll happily supply one. Some are drug related but none of them need to be part of this debate.'
Faraday smiled to himself. It was a consummate response, the perfect finesse, and Faraday wondered whether Willard would make a note of it for later use. In two years on the Major Crimes Team he'd never had Willard down as much of a politician but now he began to wonder.
Secretan had returned to Cathy Lamb. At his prompting, she confirmed the beginnings of a serious turf war. Getting some kind of result against two of the Scousers would doubtless thin their ranks but every last shred of incoming intelligence suggested that the certainty of fat profits spoke louder than anything else. Her guys had their thumbs in the dyke but the market, in the end, would swamp their best efforts at containment. If not the Scousers, then the West Indians. If not them, then any number of a dozen other tribes. Albanians? Turks? Chinese?
Russians? In this game, said Cathy, you could take your pick.
Down the table, a figure stirred. It was Harry Wayte.
'Cathy's right,' he said softly. 'We got word this morning of a major cocaine shipment down from town. Hand on my heart, I can't attest it.
Ask me where it's gone, I can't tell you. But demand is through the roof. And where there's demand, there's supply.' He paused. 'I know I sound prehistoric but this used to be a city I understood. We knew what we were in for. Weekends could be lively and drugs were part of all that, no question, but we knew the major players, talked to them, kept the lid on. Now, it's all turning to rat shit. One day soon, we're going to be wishing the locals had stayed in charge.'
Willard was leaning forward. He wanted to know about this latest cocaine shipment. What was the strength of the intelligence? Who'd sourced it? Secretan extended a cautionary hand. They could discuss all that in a moment or two. For now, he was keen for Harry Wayte to continue.
Harry shrugged.
'There's nothing more to say, sir. Except it's sometimes better the devil you know.'
'You mean Mackenzie?'
'Of course. To stay in the game nowadays, blokes like him have to up the violence. That's why it's all kicked off. But it didn't used to be that way. Not when they had the city to themselves.'
'And you think that's a shame?'
'I think it made our job easier.'
'Even when they were turning over millions of quids' worth? Flaunting it?'
'Yes. Because that's the price you pay for peace and quiet. Look at us now. We wouldn't be here, around this table, unless all that had broken down. You're asking me what to do about it? To be frank, I haven't a clue. Worse still, I don't think anyone else has. We're chasing our tails. I'm sorry, but it's true.'
Heads around the table had turned to Secretan. To Faraday's surprise, he seemed completely at peace at the direction this meeting had suddenly taken. Where many men in his position would have dismissed Harry Wayte out of hand, there was absolutely no sense that his authority was being challenged. On the contrary, he seemed to view Harry's contribution as genuinely worthwhile.
'Geoff?' He was looking at Willard. 'What's your take on this?'
