might be best to put his Mondeo on the hard standing in front of the garage.
Faraday said no to everything, swallowed the coffee, and headed for the door. On the front step, not the least upset, she gave him a big hug and told him to get a good night's sleep. He'd smiled at her and said he'd do his best. He drove up the road to turn round, and as he passed the house again he could see her through the net curtains in the lounge, a huge swirl of turquoise, dancing alone to the music.
Now, he wandered downstairs and put the kettle on, forcing himself to plan the day. If he had the energy, he'd put a coat on and walk the three miles to the bird reserve at Farlington Marshes. Contributors to the Birdline website had been talking of short-eared owls and he knew the sight of one of those daylight hunters might cheer him up. Back by mid morning, he'd be in good time to drive down to the Solent Palace Hotel. Maybe he'd treat himself to lunch, find out if the food had improved, pretend he was Graham Wallace, check out the sight lines from the restaurant and the exits to the car park, and all the other stuff that setting up a meet like this involved. The thought filled him with gloom, not because he'd lost faith in the operation but because the very prospect of having to make any kind of decision seemed hopelessly daunting.
The kettle began to boil and he stepped across to switch it off. The teapot lay on the nearby tray. J-J had been the last to use it and a couple of ancient tea bags were still visible inside. Faraday froze for a moment, staring down in bewilderment. His brain appeared to have locked solid. Try as he might, he couldn't work out what to do next.
Paul Winter was the first customer of the morning at Pompey Blau. He parked his precious Subaru and sauntered across the road towards the forecourt. A breakfast at a cafe round the corner had improved an already promising day and the sight of a line of gleaming BMWs lifted his spirits still further. He hadn't felt so cheerful for years.
A small hut at the back of the forecourt housed the sales operation.
This, thought Winter, was Pompey at its best. Half a million quid's worth of German engineering on display and some dosser's garden shed to tidy up the paperwork.
A youth in a baseball cap and a Saints football top lounged behind the desk. A Saturday copy of the Sun was open at the football page.
'Brave lad.' Winter nodded at the shirt, 'You got a death wish or something?'
Without saying a word, the youth twisted round in the chair. Scrolled across the back of the shirt, Scummers Suck.
'Nice one. Mike Valentine around?'
'No.'
'Any idea where I can find him?'
'No, mush.'
'Seen him at all recently, have you?'
The youth shook his head. His eyes hadn't left the paper. Winter planted himself in front of the desk, then bent low, his mouth an inch from the youth's ear.
'What if I want to buy one of those nice cars?' he whispered.
The youth at last lifted his head.
'You can't.'
'Can't? How does that work? I thought this was a garage?'
'They're all sold.'
'All of them? Why doesn't it say so?'
'Run out of stickies, mate. And my writing's crap.' He'd gone back to the paper. 'Valentine's probably at Waterlooville. Why don't you try there?'
Waterlooville was fifteen minutes up the motorway. Once a quiet country town, it had recently sprawled outwards in a rash of trading estates and executive housing developments that threatened to engulf the surrounding countryside.
Mike Valentine Autos occupied a corner site on the trading estate to the west of the town centre. Winter left the Subaru at the kerb side and strolled across to the big, glass-fronted offices beside the showroom. A crescent of blue sofa was littered with motoring magazines and a water cooler bubbled on a stand in the corner. A banner hung on the wall behind the empty reception desk. More For Less, it read.
Driving Is Believing.
Winter lingered beside the desk for a moment or two. Twenty-five years in the job had given him a talent for reading documents upside down, but he had to double-check before he believed the figure on the sales invoice. A two-year-old Beemer for 9500? Couldn't be done.
There were dozens more invoices underneath. He stepped round the desk and began to flick through them. A 2002-reg series 5 for 14,950. A Mercedes S for 11,750. No wonder everyone he knew in the job was beating a path to Mike Valentine's door. This wasn't a sales operation, it was a charity.
'Can I help you?'
A woman had appeared from a room at the back. She was young, tall and blonde with a spray-on top and low-slung jeans to showcase her belly piercing. Winter offered a cheerful grin. If her name wasn't Sharon, it should have been.
'Mike Valentine?'
'Not here today.' She was looking down at the invoices. 'You from the VAT or something?'
'Just curious. Friend told me this was the place to come for a bargain.'
'You wanna carV She seemed astonished.
'That's right. Prices like these, who wouldn't?'
'Yeah?' She frowned, then started picking at a nail. 'You'll have to talk to Mike, then. There's no one else now.'
'Why's that then?'
'Dunno.' She shrugged. 'You'll have to ask him.'
'Fine. Love to. Where is he?'
'Out.'
'Out where?'
'London.'
'What about the cars next door?'
'Most of them are gone, sold. Bloke came in this morning and cancelled on the blue series 3 convertible. You can have a look at that, if you want.'
'Through there?' Winter nodded across at the door that led into the showroom. 'You got a service history or anything?'
'Try the workshop at the back. There's a bloke called Barry.' She sank into the chair behind the desk and dug around in the drawer for a nail file. The conversation was evidently over.
Winter headed for the showroom. Amongst half a dozen cars was the blue convertible. Winter made a cursory inspection, gave one of the front wheels a kick, noticed the distinctive Play Up Pompey sticker on the back, then headed out into the sunshine again.
The workshop, invisible from the road, was a breeze-block construction with folding metal doors. Two CCTV cameras looked down on the apron of oil-stained tarmac at the front and a prominent sign threatened illegal parkers with clamping. One of the two doors was open, and Winter stepped into the gloom, peering round.
The workshop was bigger than he'd expected. A couple of inspection pits occupied one side and a powered chain hoist hung from one of the overhead girders. Like every other detective in the area, Winter had picked up the gossip after Valentine had survived a carefully plotted road stop on the A3 shortly before Christmas. Judging by the resources they'd thrown at the job surveillance, traffic cars, spotter plane — you'd have expected something substantial in the way of a result, yet even the wreckers in Scenes of Crime had failed to find even a trace of anything naughty.
The fact that Valentine was tied in with Bazza Mackenzie was common knowledge, but Christmas was the first time that Winter had given the partnership serious thought. Maybe the guys who'd set up the intercept were right, he thought. Maybe Valentine's lads really did run shit loads of cocaine down from London. If so, then a workshop like this would be exactly the kind of unloading facility they'd need.
Except for a tidy-looking BMW X5, the garage was empty. Winter sauntered across and took a look. Someone
