'Gisela's straight,' Willard said at once.
'So is McNaughton. So is Wallace. So am I. Gisela wants to off load the fort for real. That says motive to me.' He offered Willard a chilly smile. 'Just a thought, sir, that's all.'
Willard's phone began to ring. It was Cathy Lamb. She was downstairs.
She needed to talk to Willard urgently.
'Come up,' he grunted. 'Join the party.'
It took Cathy less than a minute to appear at the door. The sight of Faraday seemed to take her by surprise. She nodded at him, then apologised to Willard for her gardening gear.
'Been on the allotment,' she explained.
'Don't blame you. I can think of worse ways of spending a Sunday.
What's the problem?'
Cathy explained about the arrest of Barry Leggat. Winter had pulled him last night with a decent stash of cocaine. Leggat worked for Valentine and Winter had cause to believe that the car dealer was getting out with the rest of the coke.
'Whose coke?'
'Winter doesn't know. He thinks there's probably a connection to Mackenzie but he doesn't know how.'
'Evidence?'
Cathy summarised it. Most of it was either guesswork or circumstantial. Beyond dispute was the fact that Valentine was selling his house, disposing of his business, and had booked a ticket on tomorrow night's sailing to Le Havre. P amp;O had finally come back and confirmed a ticket for a vehicle and a four-berth cabin in the name of Mr. M. Valentine.
'They've got a number for the cabin?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You think they might be up for a spot of covert? Only we're good at that.' To Cathy's relief, Willard appeared to be ahead of the game.
'Don't know, sir. I thought you might make the call. That's why I'm here.'
'Fine. Get me a name and phone number.'
'It's the divisional manager. He's at home at the moment but he's expecting a call.'
'No problem.' He offered her a thin smile. 'It'll be a pleasure.'
Cathy disappeared downstairs again to phone the number through. Willard stared at Faraday.
'You think Mackenzie's taking the piss again?' He frowned. 'Or is Winter onto something?'
Chapter twenty-two
SUNDAY, 23 MARCH 2003, 17.40
Paul Winter had been trying to raise Harry Wayte for the last couple of days. Early Sunday evening, he finally got through.
'Been away,' Wayte explained. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?'
'Just wondered whether you'd fancy a pint.'
'Why?'
Winter had known Harry Wayte for years and had always admired him.
There was a bluntness and impatience about the man that had made him one of the more effective DIs. At one point Winter had almost sorted himself a transfer to Wayte's Tactical Crime Unit, but Harry had a nose for artists like Winter and the vacancy had finally gone to a younger DC. Winter had been disappointed at the time but Wayte for him was still a light in the darkness. Spend an hour or so with Harry, and you felt you were talking to a real copper.
'One or two things to discuss,' Winter said lightly.
'It's Sunday. Why can't it wait?'
'Because next week's a bastard.' Winter glanced at his watch. 'You still living up in Havant?'
Wayte told him a meet was out of the question. He was off to Fort Nelson this evening for a get-together with some friends. It was a regular thing, happened every month, and even the likes of Paul Winter wouldn't break the pattern.
Wayte paused. 'What's it about, then?' he queried.
'Mike Valentine.'
There was a long silence. Then Wayte was back on the phone. The meeting at Nelson started at half seven, bunch of guys from the Palmerston Forts Society. First half-hour or so was boring as fuck but this evening they were watching a little play of some kind, an entertainment, and guests were welcome. Why didn't Winter come up, watch the play, then afterwards they could talk?
'Delighted. Half seven, then.'
Faraday had decided to walk to the cathedral. From the Bargemaster's House to Old Portsmouth was a serious trek with the detour down to the se afront at least five miles but he knew he needed the fresh air.
Tumbril had blown up in their faces, an event as violent and unexpected as any car bomb, and his head was still ringing from the explosion.
Willard had spent most of the afternoon with Terry Alcott, the Assistant Chief Constable in charge of CID and Special Operations.
Alcott had a place in the Meon Valley, and had evidently abandoned his day's fishing to survey the smoking ruins of Tumbril.
Willard had phoned Faraday just after four with a series of preliminary decisions. He wanted full statements on the lunchtime meet from Wallace, McNaughton and Faraday himself. The offices on Whale Island were to be sealed and guarded, absolutely no one permitted entry.
Faraday was to make the arrangements with the MoD police, and further ensure that the Tumbril team Imber, Prebble and Joyce were to be turned away at the guardhouse when they appeared tomorrow morning at Whale Island. Willard wanted all three in his office at Kingston Crescent for half nine.
On the phone, Willard had been businesslike, almost abrupt. Whatever happened next, the consequences of the lunchtime meet at the Solent Palace were brutally clear. This investigation was no longer about Bazza Mackenzie but about Tumbril itself.
To his own surprise, Faraday felt almost relieved. From the start, less than a week ago, he'd been bounced into this sealed-off world where nothing was quite what it seemed. Every conversation, Faraday realised, had been governed by an uneasy sense of who knew what. Every phone call became another piece of the jigsaw to be locked away and assessed before anyone else took a look. Most investigations, in Faraday's experience, relied above all on teamwork. Without the support of the blokes around you, any major inquiry was dead in the water. But Tumbril turned that kind of automatic, instinctive kinship on its head. In the course of four short days, trust had become a currency to be spent with extraordinary care.
Faraday had hated it. On one level, he'd understood why Willard had fenced Tumbril off, and then built fire walls within the operation itself. 'Need to know' was rule one for every security service in the world, and there were decent coppers, people like Nick Hayder, who thrived on it. Yet to Faraday, this kind of MO tight-fisted, calculating, cold fed a paranoia that ended up tainting everything. You didn't know who to confide in, who to bounce ideas off. Your hands were shackled by the constant anxiety that a misplaced word or creature misht blow an entire year's work. These were pressures that it took someone very special to withstand, and Faraday now understood why even Nick Hayder in the weeks before his accident had begun to buckle.
What would happen next? Lawyers at the Crown Prosecution Service would clearly have a view, and that would probably govern the immediate days ahead, but beyond the CPS lay deeper family issues that the force itself would have to confront. Willard was right. Tumbril had been comprehensively blown. Someone within the tight inner circle had been feeding Mackenzie information. Maybe for money. Maybe for advantage.
Maybe in revenge for some private slight. Whatever the motive, it represented the deepest possible wound to an organisation that relied on at least a measure of mutual trust.
Some form of internal inquiry, Faraday thought, was the likeliest outcome. A senior officer from the
