case, and the last consignment had been as huge as street talk suggested, then what would be the harm in helping himself to an ounce or two on the side?
'What are you suggesting?'
'We get a warrant on his house. Do it ASAP. If we find any gear, he might be up for a longer conversation.'
'A warrant on what grounds?'
'Good point.' Winter gazed at the ceiling a moment. He needed an informant, someone with credible information. 'Dave Pullen.' He smiled. 'I saved his arse this morning, and he knows it. Plus he's not best mates with Valentine.'
'He'll stand the intelligence up?'
'Enough for the magistrate, no problem.'
Cathy still wasn't convinced.
'What about this Leggat?' she said. 'You think he'd be silly enough to stash the cocaine at home? Assuming you've got this right?'
'He's just done two years, Cath.' Winter was looking wounded. 'Bright guys in this world never get caught.'
Faraday was happy to accept Nigel Phillimore's offer of afternoon tea.
Mortified by his conduct in the cathedral but still cocooned by three hours of drinking, he accompanied Phillimore up the High Street to the narrow little house that came with the post of Canon.
He and Phillimore had met a couple of years back. Faraday was investigating the death of a fourteen-year-old from Old Portsmouth, and had been surprised to unearth a relationship between the dead girl's mother and this man of the cloth. The inquiry had led to a couple of lengthy conversations in Phillimore's house, both of which had stuck in Faraday's mind not simply because they'd been evidentially so vital but because he'd rarely met anyone so open and sympathetic. This man, he'd thought at the time, offers something extraordinary: the gift of immediate and unconditional friendship. For a detective used to a culture built on instinctive suspicion, he was a very rare bird indeed.
Phillimore's house, when he pushed the door open and stood aside, even smelled the same: a certain brand of joss stick, exotic, pungent, that brought the memory of their previous encounters flooding back. Faraday made his way along the narrow hall, reaching for support when the drink threatened to get the better of him, recognising the framed colour photos of Angola hanging on the wall. Phillimore had taken them himself, years ago during a Fair Trade visit, and Faraday remembered him talking about the country with a quiet intensity that was all the more arresting for being so unforced.
Upstairs, too, little seemed to have changed. The cosy sitting room warmed by bookshelves and a threadbare oriental carpet looked out onto the High Street, and Faraday recognised the Chinese bowl of potpourri on the window sill. He settled himself in a battered armchair beside the window as Phillimore enquired about his taste in tea. He had Earl Grey, Lapsang, or a new discovery he'd made only last week, Munnar Premium. Faraday beamed at him, telling him it didn't matter. Medium height, with a slight stoop, Phillimore had put on a little weight since they'd last met but the smile on his face was just the same. It was a face made for kinship and laughter. Just sitting here, Faraday felt immediately brighter.
'Your cat?' he asked.
'On loan. I've been away for a while. Only got back last night.'
He disappeared into the kitchen while Faraday inspected the postcards pinned to corners of the bookshelves. On this evidence, Phillimore had friends in Salzburg, Bombay, Paris, and a cityscape that looked like Rio. Someone in Pompey who dared to look outwards.
Minutes later, he was back with a tray of tea. Another journey yielded a lemon cake and a plate of macaroons.
'This one turned up at lunchtime from a woman in the choir.' His knife was hovering over the cake. 'Go away for a couple of weeks and you forget how spoiled we are.'
He cut two generous slices and passed one to Faraday. He'd been off on a three-week jaunt to Kerala. That part of India had always fascinated him, the idea of the place, and he'd been glad to discover that communism could indeed go hand in hand with equality and a certain levelling of outcomes.
'Communism?' Faraday was lost.
'The provincial government is communist, and I have to say that it shows. Superb education. Terrific command of English. And the nicest people in the world.' He paused, slipping effortlessly from one theme to another. 'Do you mind me saying something?'
'Not at all.'
'You look exhausted.'
'Drunk, I'm afraid.'
'No,' Phillimore was stirring his tea. 'It's more than that.' He glanced up. 'What did you think of the choir?'
'I thought they were superb.'
'They're Estonian. They come from Tallinn. They're singing tomorrow night, half past seven. You should come. And I mean that.'
'I will.'
'Good. Last time I seem to remember it was you asking all the questions.' He smiled. 'So how's it been?'
Faraday gazed at him for a long moment. It was an innocent enough enquiry, a near-stranger expressing a passing interest in his well-being, but there was something in his tone of voice, in the tilt of his head, that spoke of genuine concern. This man really cares, Faraday thought.
'It's been bloody,' he said quietly. 'If you really want to know.'
'Bloody… how?'
'Bloody awful. Just' he spread his hands hopelessly 'bloody.'
He told Phillimore a little about the last two years, the wash-up after the fourteen-year-old's death, his subsequent transfer into Major Crimes, the caseload he'd been dealing with since.
'Was it a promotion, Major Crimes?'
'They put it that way, yes.'
'And you? What do you think?'
'I think they're right. In my business we talk about the quality of a crime. You get to concentrate on one thing at a time a rape, a murder, sometimes both. After divisional CID, believe me, that's a relief.'
'You felt spoiled?' Phillimore was smiling again.
'Definitely. But it's a compliment, too. It means they trust you.
Some of this stuff is tough, high profile. You can't afford to let them down.'
'The relatives?'
'Of course. And your bosses, too.'
'Which matters most?'
It was a good question and Faraday conceded as much by ducking his head and reaching for a slice of cake. Eadie Sykes, he knew, would say Daniel Kelly. What did Faraday himself think?
'Each case is different,' he said at last. 'Just now I have to tell you I don't know.'
'Do you want to talk about it?'
'I'm afraid I can't. Operationally' he shot Phillimore a bleak smile 'it's impossible.'
'Are you sure that's the problem?'
'I'm not with you.'
'This operation… inquiry… investigation… whatever it is. We all hide behind our jobs. Are you sure it's not something else?'
Faraday looked startled. This man's judgement was faultless. But how could he begin to disentangle J-J, and Eadie Sykes, and the wreckage of his private life from the monster that was Tumbril?
'Policemen have a knack of taking their work home,' he began lamely.
'So do we. And it's not always helpful, is it?'
'No, not at all. But what do you do about it?'
'You find a relationship, and then stick to it. In my case, it happens to be God. Whether that makes me lucky
