piece of investigative speculation was a non-starter. Willard was the all-time control freak.
He couldn't make a cup of tea without taking sole charge of the kitchen. Accept money from the likes of Mackenzie, and he'd hand the man a loaded gun. Why would Willard surrender the rest of his life to the man he'd sworn to put behind bars?
Dismissing the thought, Faraday returned to yesterday's crucial meet at the Solent Palace Hotel. At Willard's insistence, he'd listened again to the recording, concentrating on the moment when the conversation across the table in the window had so suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Buried in what followed could be a clue, a tiny smudge of chalk on a tree, something that might flag the investigative path forward.
He'd listened to the recording three times in all, hearing the anger in Mackenzie's voice, the resentment bred by his knowledge of the trap closing around him, his belief all too real that his hands-on days of wheeling and dealing in cocaine were history and that he deserved a little credit for the transformation he'd wrought in his own and Pompey's fortunes. It was, in the end, a question of status. The butterfly had emerged from the chrysalis, a maggot no longer. King of the City, indeed.
Faraday felt a tiny jolt of recognition. He straightened on the chair, forcing himself back through his memory of the recording, trying to identify that one phrase that Mackenzie had let slip. It was there. He knew it was. He could sense its rhythm in his head, the tell-tale metre, the ripple of incandescent anger that gave Mackenzie away.
Something chippy. Something about his roots. Something about Copnor.
Then, as the final passage of plainsong began to fade, Faraday had it.
Punchy little mush front the backstreets of Copnor. That's what he'd said.
As the audience began to applaud and the singers took a bow, Faraday sat back, astonished at the implications of his discovery. Punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor. Just so.
Moments later came the lightest of taps on his shoulder. Faraday twisted round in his chair. Nigel Phillimore was standing behind him.
There was to be a modest reception for the Estonians in the Sally Port Hotel tomorrow evening. The choir was off back to Tallinn and the cathedral was saying thank you. If Faraday wanted to be part of that farewell, he was more than welcome to come along. Seven o'clock would be fine.
Faraday gazed up at him, aware that the details had barely registered.
'Of course.' He smiled. 'I'll do my very best.'
A couple of miles east of Fort Nelson, commanding an even better view of the city, was a hilltop pub called The Churchillian. Winter and Harry Wayte had driven there in convoy. Now they sat together at a table by the window, nearly a pint down, still discussing Pompey's role in the defence of the realm.
'Blood and treasure,' Wayte grunted. 'When the trumpets sounded and the drums beat, you couldn't find a richer city in the kingdom. The minute the war was over, they were all back on the turnpike, riding hard for London. That's why Pompey blokes grab it while they can.
That's why the kids are off their heads most of the time. It's in the genes, mate.' He nodded. 'Blood and treasure.'
'Whose blood?'
'Ours.'
'And the treasure?'
'The King's.' Wayte raised his glass. 'Here's to September.'
September was the month Wayte was due to retire. Listening to him now, watching him amongst his civvy mates at Fort Nelson, Winter felt the faintest stirrings of envy. Speaking for himself, Winter was happy to admit that he dreaded the prospect of leaving the job. He wouldn't have a clue what to do with the empty days that yawned before him.
Harry, on the other hand, couldn't wait for it to happen.
Winter watched him drain his glass, then went to the bar for refills.
By the time he got back, Wayte was deep in an abandoned copy of the Sunday Telegraph.
'So what are you going to do?'
'When?' Wayte looked up, folding the paper.
'After September.'
'Ah…' He grinned. 'You want the list?'
First off, there was long-overdue maintenance on his little fleet of model warships. A major battle was scheduled on Canoe Lake for Trafalgar Day, and he needed his frigates in full fighting order.
Afterwards, once he'd taken his missus on the promised jaunt to Venice, he was joining the Hilsea Lines project.
'What's that, then?'
'Down there.' Wayte nodded into the darkness. 'Bunch of blokes have got together on a restoration project. The place has been a wilderness, bits still are. They've put paths in, sorted out some of the casemates, done a bit of research. A couple of blokes on the job have been involved. Me? Can't wait. Cheers. Happy days, eh?'
His huge hand closed around the glass. Hilsea Lines was the inner circle of defence works that protected the north shore of Portsea Island, yet another confirmation that Pompey's hackles were permanently raised. Anyone with a serious interest in this martial little city would have to fight for it.
'What's with Valentine, then?' Wayte had plainly tired of social chitchat.
'I'm thinking of buying a motor off him.'
'And that's why' Wayte looked astonished 'you wanted a meet? To talk about Valentine's cars}' 'Yeah.' Winter smiled at him. 'Any other reason I should be interested?'
The question was a direct challenge and Wayte knew it. He sat back in his chair, eyeing Winter, trying to gauge his real interest.
'Valentine's leaving,' he said at last. 'Selling up. Getting out. Did you know that?'
'Yeah. And I was wondering why.'
'Because he's had enough.'
'Enough of what?'
'This shit-hole city. Bloke's made himself a packet, done well out of the motors. He's what… forty… forty-five? That kind of age, you've still got plenty of time to make the most of it. Wouldn't blame him, would you?'
'Where's he going?'
'Spain, as far as I know.'
'Marbella?'
'Could be. Half of Pompey seem to live down there. Good luck to the bloke is what I say.'
'So why aren't you shipping out, then? If it's such a crap place to live?'
'Because it doesn't bother me, not the way it bothers blokes like Valentine. I've lived here all my life, just like my dad did, just like his dad did. Those days, you got yourself a decent education, learned to handle yourself, went to sea, got a proper job afterwards.
Me? I've loved it all until recently, but that's the job's fault, not mine. Pompey's home, Paul. And my missus can't stand all that Spanish sun.'
Winter nodded. He understood exactly what Harry meant.
'Cathy Lamb mentioned some intelligence you raised a couple of days ago,' he said carefully. 'Big cocaine shipment. Wouldn't have any details, would you?'
'Fraid not.'
'You don't have the details or you're not up for sharing them?'
'Don't have the details. Couple of my blokes have their ears to the ground. Street prices are down, too. That tells me it's more than a rumour.'
'But no names attached?'
'No.' He reached for his glass again. 'Why?'
'I was just wondering about Bazza.'
'No.' He shook his huge head. 'Definitely not. Bazza's out of the front line now, too much else going on for him, too busy playing the businessman.'
'You don't think he's retained an interest?'
'That's different. Fuck knows how you prove it but I'd be amazed if he wasn't staking other guys, keeping it in
