down this river of memories. There were worse things in life, Faraday thought, than being someone like this, a good solid cop, nearly thirty years of service, with the knowledge that he'd locked up far more than his share of quality villains.
Faraday ordered himself a half of Guinness, raising his glass in salute when Harry caught his eye. Moments later, Harry abandoned his audience and took Faraday by the arm. The crescent of banquette by the window was empty. Harry was already drunk.
'Back there, son.'
'Where, Harry?'
'Downstairs. That poxy drugs meeting. No offence.'
'Offence? What are you on about?'
'What I said.' He frowned. 'I know it's not P fucking C but sometimes you just get up to here with all the bullshit. Know what I mean?'
Faraday nodded. He knew exactly what Harry Wayte meant. Drugs were everywhere, an indelible stain. They turned families inside out.
They'd put Nick Hayder under the wheels of a car. They'd sent J-J on an errand that might still land him up in a prison cell. Small wonder guys like Harry, guys in the know, lost patience with management-speak.
Faraday patted him on the arm.
'Right or wrong, Harry. It needed saying.'
'You mean that?'
'Yeah.' He raised his glass again. 'Happy birthday.'
'Cheers. Here's to the next one. Same day, same place, eh?'
'I thought you were retiring?'
'I am. I've put my thirty in. September the twenty-third. Can't wait.' He beckoned Faraday closer. 'Seriously, Joe, you've been there, you've been around. What's your take? Think we're coping?
Scousers? Yardies? Kids running round with Glocks and sledgehammers?'
He went on, his finger in Faraday's face, painting an ever more lurid picture of urban chaos, a wide screen horror flick scored for psychotic adolescents with limitless ammunition. 'It'll happen.' He tapped the side of his cratered nose. 'Believe me, Joe. And soon.'
'You really think so?'
'I know so. It won't be my problem, except I fucking live here, but it might be yours.' He gave Faraday a nudge, slopping his drink in the process. 'And you know something else?'
'What's that, Harry?'
'We should legalise the fucking lot. Forget Class A, Class B, all that shit. Just make it all legit and then tax the arse off it. Clean gear and a million new hospitals. You heard it here first.'
'You think that would work?'
'I think two things, Joe. Number one, it would take out every scumbag dealer in this fucking scumbag city bosh just like that. And number two, there's no way it'll ever happen. So… how do you explain that little poser? Because every other bloke you know's got a finger in the pie. It's big business, Joe. It's an industry. Legalise gear, and half the country half the planet are looking for a new job. Am I right?'
Faraday ducked the question. Most weeks now, correspondents to the letters page of Police Review magazine were banging the same drum, and lately there were signs that a lobby within ACPO some of the country's top police officers were beginning to despair of the current approach, but Faraday had yet to make up his mind. Friday nights in the city, largely fuelled by alcohol, were bad enough already. What would happen if you legalised everything else?
Harry Wayte was still demanding an answer.
'Haven't got one, Harry. The script says nick the bad guys, so that's what I try and do.'
'But that's the point, Joe. Nicking the bad guys drugs-wise solves fuck all because the bad guys are everywhere. Put one away and another half-dozen turn up to take his place. It's numbers, Joe. It's Custer's last stand. Dien Bien Phu. We're fighting the wrong war.'
It seemed to Faraday that Harry Wayte meant it. His passion for military history like his passion for model boats was well known, and if nothing else then his sheer length of service gave him the right to question the larger assumptions. Part of the problem nowadays was that old campaigners like Harry Wayte were too easily dismissed. Not everything in life responded to pie charts and SWOT analysis.
Faraday stole a glance at his watch.
'I'm with you, Harry,' he said.
'Like how?'
'Like it's a bastard.'
Faraday glanced up to find Willard looming over him. He wasn't smiling. When Harry struggled to his feet and offered to buy a drink, Willard ignored him.
'A word, Joe.' Willard nodded towards the stairs. 'If you can spare the time.'
Willard shut the door to his office. He'd been talking to Gisela Mendel and he wanted to know what the fuck was going on.
'She's tell ling me she's going to be left high and dry,' he said.
'Now who put that idea into her head?'
'High and dry how?'
'A fort on her hands and no one to sell it to.'
'I've no idea, sir.'
'She said she'd been talking to you.'
'That's true.'
'And she said you asked what would happen if Mackenzie wasn't around any more.'
'That's not quite the way I put it.'
'It wasn't? Well it didn't take too long for her to suss that's what you meant. This is u/c, Joe. This is a six- figure investment, God knows how much resource, and you've just blown the whole fucking caboodle. So far, she's been good as gold, completely on side She knows we're up to something. She knows Mackenzie's hot for it. And she knows Wallace is a plant. But that's all she knows. Or used to.'
'I'm not hearing you,' Faraday said softly.
'Too fucking right, you're not.'
'No.' Faraday shook his head, taking a tiny step closer. 'You don't understand. From where I'm sitting, it goes like this. You or Hayder or whoever sets up the sting. The fort is the bait in the trap.
Mackenzie takes the bait. Is the fort really up for sale? No. Does our German friend have to pretend it is? Yes. Does it occur to her that we might have a professional interest in Mackenzie? Yes. Might she therefore draw one or two conclusions? Yes… unless she's very, very stupid.' He paused. 7s she very very stupid?'
'How would I know?'
'I've no idea. Except her husband's suddenly suing for divorce.'
'What the fuck's that supposed to mean?'
'It means the game has changed. It means she doesn't want to play any more, not by our rules anyway. Show her a buyer Mackenzie — and she'll sell, for real. That says liability to me. That says she's got every interest in keeping Mackenzie a free man.' He paused. 'How well do you know her? Only now might be the time for a serious word or two.'
Willard turned away. Standing by the window, he cracked open the Venetian blinds with his fingers, peered down into the car park beneath.
'Wallace has been on again,' he said at length. 'Mackenzie's come up with a time and place for Sunday. Wallace wants a face-to-face to talk it through.'
'Both of us?'
'Just you, Joe. McDonald's off the motorway, two thirty. He'll probably have his handler with him.' Willard was still staring down through the Venetian blinds. 'OK?'
