'No need,' he said.
'Why's that?'
'I'm buying the place.'
'This place? The hotel?'
'Sure. Funny that.' The chuckle became a laugh. 'I thought someone might have told you.'
Doug Hughes had stood throughout the viewing. He was a tall, loose-limbed man with a boyish, unlined face and an affection for yachtie leisure gear from the expensive end of the market. During their eleven-year marriage, he'd often been mistaken for Eadie Sykes's kid brother.
'That was incredible,' he said. 'I've never seen anything like that in my life.'
'I should hope not. That's the whole point.'
'And you've got permission for all this?' He waved a hand at the laptop. 'None of it's ripped off?'
'Do me a favour, Doug. Nice girl like me?'
'So how did you swing it? The morgue stuff for instance?'
'Charm. And not taking no for an answer. Helps to be an Aussie sometimes, skin that thick.' She held her finger and thumb inches apart. Hughes was still staring at the tiny screen.
'So what happens next?'
'I tape the funeral and add some other footage stills maybe, stuff I can get from Daniel's dad. Good, wasn't he?'
'Incredible. Just perfect. No actor in the world could do that.'
'Sure. Catch 'em in the right mood, treat 'em rough, never fails.'
'Don't cheapen yourself.'
'I'm not, I'm just telling you. In this game, as long as you know where you're going, and why…'
'Yes?'
'Nothing. It's means and ends, my love. Always was, always will be.'
She reached for the PC. Once the video was complete, she had a list of people she needed to see it. That list included the mystery backer her ex-husband had tapped up for 7000. He should, at the very least, see what he'd got for his money 'Does he have a name, this guy?' She enquired.
'Of course he does.' Hughes was watching Eadie as she extracted the VHS. 'This video's still going to schools?'
'Sure. And colleges, and youth groups, and anyone else who wants it.'
'For money or for free?'
'Depends. Why do you ask?'
'Because my generous friend' he smiled 'might have a view.'
With the arrival of the food, the mood had changed. Mackenzie and Wallace appeared to have agreed to explore some kind of partnership deal. There'd been no further mention of cocaine or the need to launder profits. As far as both men were concerned, this had the makings of a straightforward business lunch.
Willard, Faraday knew, was disappointed. Mackenzie and Wallace were barely a glass of wine down and there was plenty of scope for excitements to come, but the feeling persisted that the key moment had passed. Wallace had cleverly led Mackenzie towards the very edge of self-incrimination yet when the words were on his lips Bazza had stepped back from the brink. Now, as the sturdy little figure in the window called for more horseradish for his steak and kidney, Wallace had returned to football.
'Ever think of buying into the club?' he asked. 'Only the way things are going…'
'You're right, mate. Premiership come August, for definite.'
'Not worth a punt?'
'Tried it once, really fancied it. Part of my life, Fratton Park.'
'And?'
'I bid for eleven per cent. They wouldn't have me.'
'Why not?'
'Dunno. Never said. Thanks, mate.' Faraday caught a muttered comment from the waiter as the horseradish arrived, then Mackenzie was talking about the club again. Back in his 6.57 days, he'd have died for Pompey. Nearly did, couple of times.
'6.57?'
'Hard-core fans. Head cases. Paulsgrove boys. The skinheads from the Havelock. Mushes from all over. We took the first train out on away games, anywhere for a fight, bang right up for it. We were Pompey and we didn't give a fuck. The Millwall at Waterloo. The Chelsea, Leeds, Cardiff Soul Crew, Brummie Zulus. We'd take anyone on, steam straight in, didn't matter who, and you know what? We never went tooled up once. Too pissed most of the time, just forgot. One Derby game we ended up in a race riot. Those blokes would have eaten us, given half a chance.'
'What happened?'
'We had it with them, gave them the fucking large one. Situation like that, really tasty, some blokes just cack themselves. You can smell it, fear. Know what I mean?'
It was an innocent enough question, just a ripple in the conversational tide, but Faraday detected an edge in Mackenzie's voice that hadn't been there before. Willard had caught it too. The sun was hot through the windows. He was beginning to sweat.
Wallace remained as relaxed and untroubled as ever. The 6.57 sounded like a good laugh. Maybe every town should have one.
'Yeah, but that's the point, isn't it? This isn't just any old town and we were't just any old firm. Live here, grow up here, be part of the place, and you'd understand that. It's special, Pompey. And something else, mate, it's fucking mine. OK?'
Willard and Faraday exchanged glances. The transformation, all too sudden, was complete. For whatever reason, a smirk, a misplaced gesture, Wallace appeared to have lit a fuse under Mackenzie. His voice had hardened. In the window, he was halfway across the table, his meal ignored. This had ceased to be a peaceable business negotiation, a matey head-to-head over a pile of Victorian granite.
From here on in, Mackenzie had a very different agenda.
'You know what, mate? People like you make me fucking ill. You think it's a piece of piss, don't you? You think I'm shit, small time, just some punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor. You think you can fanny down here and just turn me over. Well, it ain't gonna fucking happen. Not now and not ever. You understand that? Not ever.
And for why? Because I'm not as fucking thick and not as fucking small time as you all seem to think.'
All seem to think? Willard rolled his eyes.
'We're talking about a fort,' Wallace was saying, 'Not World War Three.'
'Fort, bollocks. I'll tell you what we're talking about. We're talking about fucking Tumbril. We're talking about a bunch of guys who spend the best part of a year sitting on their fat arses over in Whale Island, trying to stitch me up. That costs millions. Must do. And you know who pays your wages, Mr. Undercover Man? You know who pays for all that fancy clobber under your shirt? Plus the geezers listening in, wherever they are? People like me, blokes who go out every day and work their fucking socks off. You cunts should be out on the street, sorting out the kids, nicking the paedos, making this city safe at night. Not wasting your time with this kind of crap.'
Faraday was thinking hard about back-up. Wallace had clearly been blown. Any minute now, given the likelihood of Mackenzie's mates in the offing, this could turn into a blood bath. Faraday glanced across at McNaughton. With his responsibility for Wallace, he plainly had the same idea.
Faraday reached for the door handle. Mackenzie was ranting now, accusing Wallace of harassment. The kind of stuff he'd had to put up with over the last year, Filth sniffing round his accounts, getting up his lawyer's arse, most blokes he knew would have taken a swing. Couple of times he'd been tempted himself. Like now.
'Where are you going?' Willard's hand was on Faraday's arm, restraining him.
'In there.' Faraday nodded across towards the hotel.
'Forget it.'
'What?'
'I said forget it. The last thing he'll do is land himself in the shit. This is for our benefit, Joe. He's talking to us.'
