'Misty? Valentine's shagging Misty?' Winter was grinning now.
'Yeah.'
'Still?'
'Yeah. As far as I know.'
'Excellent.' Winter celebrated with another Werther's, his earlier hunch confirmed. 'So where does that leave you?'
Suttle laughed. 'Pretty sorted, if you really want to know.'
'And Trude?'
'She's talking about going away. It's probably fantasy but she seems to mean it. Mentioned it twice last night.'
'Poor you. Just when things were getting ' 'No, no.' Suttle grinned at him. 'She wants me to go with her.'
'Where?'
'Fuck knows.'
'How?'
'Dunno. She says she's due money.'
'Lots of money?'
'No idea.'
'Are we talking holiday here?'
'Maybe.'
'Something longer?'
'Possibly.'
'And?'
'Well… it's a joke, obviously. She's a nice girl and everything but there's no way.'
'Thank Christ for that.'
'I'm not with you.'
'No, and you won't be if you carry on like this.' Winter turned to face him. 'Listen, son. You're a bright lad, you cope OK, Christ, I even like you, but you're from way out of town and believe me that makes a difference. There's an etiquette here, things you just don't do in this city, and one of them is Trudy Gallagher. Why? Because Bazza regards her as a daughter, always has done, kith and kin, his own flesh and blood, and the last person he wants screwing the arse off her is anyone in the job. He'd take that personally, believe me.'
'You're telling me Trude is Bazza's daughter? Only that would be news to Trude.'
'I'm telling you nothing. I'm simply the messenger.'
'He told you?'
'Good as.'
'When?'
Winter looked at him a moment, then shook his head. He'd said his piece and now was the time to get back upstairs and sort Dave Pullen.
First, though, he ought to update Cathy Lamb.
He extended a hand. Suttle shook it. Winter gave a despairing sigh.
'The mobile, dickhead.'
Faraday was back in his office in the MCT suite when Gisela Mendel rang. He recognised her voice at once, the clipped German accent, and reached for the pad by the phone.
'It's about the sale on the fort,' she said at once. 'Your Mr.
Mackenzie has been on to me again.'
'And?'
'He says we need to set up a meeting for next week. He wants to bring his solicitor and says I ought to bring mine.'
'What about other bidders?'
'He doesn't seem to think that'll be a problem.'
'Really?' Faraday was calculating the time line. Mackenzie wanted to have a sort-out with Wallace over the weekend. Whatever he had in mind would presumably clear his path for a solo run at Spit Bank Fort. If Willard and Faraday were looking for proof of Mackenzie's confidence, then this was surely it.
'Last time we met, you mentioned a change of circumstances,' Faraday said carefully. 'Personal circumstances.'
'That's right. My husband's started divorce proceedings.'
'Which means the sale's for real?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Do you have a figure in mind?'
'Yes.'
'Which you'll table next week?'
'Obviously.'
'Do you mind telling me what that figure might be?'
There was a long silence. When Gisela finally answered, her voice had hardened.
'This is difficult, Mr. Faraday. Until now, as you know, it's been make-believe. I'm not asking for extra information, I don't want to know why I'm playing these games, all I'm saying is the rules have changed. I have to sell the place for real. I have to turn it into money. Of course I'd love 1,200,000 but no one's going to part with that kind of sum, not for Spit Bank. It would be nice if they did but it isn't going to happen. Frankly, given my husband's decision, I'm largely in Mr. Mackenzie's hands.'
'You'll take what he offers?'
'I'll haggle, obviously, but… yes, I have no choice.'
Faraday sat back. Not once had he thought beyond Mackenzie's impending meet with Wallace. That was the crux of Tumbril, the hinge on the investigative door, the single square on which they'd piled all their chips. What if the operation fell apart? What if by the end of next week Mackenzie had picked up this little piece of Pompey for a song?
'Have you told Mr. Willard any of this?'
'No, I tried but he was engaged.'
'Fine, leave it to me.' Faraday paused again, struck by another thought. 'What happens if Mackenzie's unable to bid?'
'I don't understand.'
'What if' Faraday knew already that this was a conversation he should never have started 'he suddenly loses interest?'
'Why on earth should he do that?'
'I've no idea, but tell me. Imagine the situation. No Mackenzie. And no one else.'
There was another silence, longer this time.
'Are you serious?' she said at last.
Daniel Kelly's father was waiting in the coffee shop at the Marriott Hotel. Eadie spotted him at a corner table the moment she walked in, a smaller man than she'd imagined, dark suit, scarlet tie, enormous blue-rimmed glasses. He folded a copy of Variety and got to his feet.
He had a warm handshake, if slightly damp.
He signalled to a distant waitress. Eadie noticed curls of bacon rind on the edge of his empty plate.
'Late breakfast. You want something to eat?'
Eadie gagged at the suggestion.
'Coffee's fine,' she said.
The waitress collected Kelly's plate and departed. The subsequent silence might have been awkward had Eadie not decided that this man deserved the truth.
'Your son was a mess,' she said quietly. 'A mess when he was alive, and a mess afterwards. I'm not sure you understand quite how bad that mess was.'
Kelly rocked back in his chair. In certain moods, Eadie Sykes could have an almost physical impact.
'You said as much on the phone,' he managed at last.
