clarification.
'Mackenzie was after the fort?'
'Indeed.'
'Which was or wasn't for sale?'
'Was, as far as he was concerned.'
'But for real, later? Because of the woman's circumstances?'
'That's correct.'
'So what happened?'
This time, Willard was brisk. The meet had been set up for yesterday lunchtime. Minimum back-up kept the operation details tight. Wallace and Mackenzie met in the bar, then went through to the restaurant. The subsequent conversation was monitored and recorded. Half an hour into the meal, it became obvious that Wallace was blown. Not just Wallace, but Tumbril itself. Game, set and match to Mr. Mackenzie.
'I've just been talking to the CPS.' Willard nodded towards the phone on his desk. 'They want the operation discontinued. From here on in, they regard Tumbril as tainted.'
'Tainted?' Faraday had never seen Imber so angry. 'Is that why we were turned away this morning? Because you guys fucked up the covert?'
'Steady on, Brian.' It was Willard. 'This isn't easy for any of us.'
'I'm sure it isn't, sir. I'm just curious, that's all. We arrive at work. We're denied access. The guy on the gate says the office has been sealed, guards posted, locks changed, the whole nine yards. That makes it a crime scene, doesn't it?'
'Yes.' Willard nodded. 'It does.'
'Brilliant. I go home Friday night thinking we're getting somewhere at last. I've seen the stuff that Martin's prepared for you, the asset statement, and to me it's starting to look good so good I took my boys to London yesterday and never gave Tumbril a moment's thought. That's rare, believe me. Then this morning comes along, and I find the whole thing's collapsed. Bang, nothing left, year zero. Not only that but we're all under suspicion for blowing a sting about which we know absolutely nothing.'
'What makes you think that?'
'Forgive me, sir, but I don't think you've thought this through. Our records will be seized, our e-mails, our phone logs, everything. Are you telling me this is some kind of exercise?'
'Not at all. Damage limitation might be closer.'
'Damage to what? To whom?'
'To Tumbril. To us all. To the force in general. I repeat: Mackenzie knows everything. That means someone must have told him. And that means we have to find out who.'
Imber fell silent for a moment. He was far too experienced a policeman to doubt for a moment the course of the next few weeks. With this much egg on Tumbril's face, someone had to start the cleanup.
'Are we suspended?' he asked at last. 'Only it might be nice to know.'
'No.' Willard shook his head. 'Mr. Alcott and I considered it but for the moment we don't believe there's a need.'
'So who heads the inquiry?' Imber was looking at Faraday.
'Don't ask me, Brian.' Faraday felt helpless. 'I'm as much in the frame as you are.'
'More, sir, with respect. You were there yesterday. Presumably you were in on the setting-up.'
Willard stirred. 'And so was I, Brian, if that's any consolation. This is getting us nowhere.'
'Mr. Willard?' Prebble had raised a hand. 'I know I'm not really in the loop here but it's not clear to me where this leaves the operation.'
'Nowhere. I just told you. The CPS have knocked it on the head.'
'So…' He was frowning, trying to follow the logic. 'We never move against Mackenzie?'
'That's right.'
'Or his solicitors? Accountants? All those nominees?'
'Right again. Unless the CPS have second thoughts.'
'That's mad. More than a year's graft? That's insane.'
'I agree.'
Prebble looked sideways at Imber, a mute appeal for support, but Imber appeared to be in shock. His face, always lean, seemed to have caved in on itself. Here was a man, Faraday thought, who's just seen his life's work demolished in less time than it took him to shave in the morning. Nailing Mackenzie, in Imber's own words, was the closest he'd ever got to ripping up this evil by the roots. Now, Tumbril's prime target was beyond reach.
Willard was mapping the road ahead. Given the potential fallout from Tumbril, the Chief had instructed the Professional Standards Department to conduct a thorough investigation. Every member of the Tumbril team, including Willard himself, would in due course be required to make themselves available for interview. In the meantime, everyone with the exception of Prebble would be reassigned to other duties.
This time it was Joyce who raised a hand.
'I vote for a wake.' She was looking at Faraday. 'That's the least Tumbril owes us.'
With the meeting over, Faraday was last to leave the table. At the door, Willard called him back. He was standing at his desk, firing up his laptop. At length, he keyed a file.
'Prebble e-mailed me this late last night. There's something you ought to look at.'
Faraday recognised the asset analysis Prebble had been compiling on Friday afternoon. But for the accountant's abrupt departure for the train, he'd have read it earlier.
'Here.' Willard had scrolled through to the final page. Under 'Miscellaneous Assets' Prebble had listed a 7000 payment from Bellux Ltd to a local company called Ambrym. Faraday felt the blood begin to ice in his veins. Bellux Ltd was the most active of Mackenzie's many companies, the engine he used to power his commercial empire. An explanatory note explained that the money was a one-off contribution to a health education video.
'Ambrym?' Willard looked up at Faraday.
'Eadie's company.'
'And the video?'
'That's the one J-J's been working on.'
'About what, exactly?'
'Heroin.'
'Co-funded by the guy who's been running drugs most of his life? If this wasn't Monday, I'd say we were looking at a piss-take here. What the fuck's going on?'
'I've no idea, sir.' Faraday couldn't take his eyes off the screen.
Ambrym Productions. November 5, Z002. 7000. Grip, he thought.
Willard stepped away from the desk. Yesterday had left its mark on him: eyes shadowed by fatigue, a fold of skin bloodied under his chin where he'd been careless with the razor.
'We shouldn't be having this conversation, Joe, but let me remind you of the obvious. Investigating officers look for motive. You live with this woman. You want the best for her. You want her to succeed. 7000 isn't a lot of motive but it's a start. You get my drift?'
Faraday nodded. There was nothing to say. Dimly, he heard Willard telling him to sort out a list of Whale Island staff who might have had access to the Tumbril offices: cleaners, caterers, photocopier engineers. He wanted full details on his desk by tomorrow morning.
'OK?'
'Yes, sir.' Faraday was back beside the door. 'Cathy Lamb's little job…' he began.
'Tonight, you mean? Mike Valentine? The P amp;O ferry?' Willard looked at Faraday for a long moment, then shook his head. 'The last thing she needs is help from us, Joe. I've told her to sort it from her end.'
It was mid morning before Cathy Lamb was summoned to Secretan's office.
The Chief Supt had received a full brief on the forthcoming operation aboard The Pride of Portsmouth, and had indicated his approval. While he understood that the operation was purely speculative, based on thinnish evidence, he badly needed a headline or two of his own in the rapidly developing media war. Twice last week, the News had led its main evening edition with drug-related stories involving generous helpings of extreme violence. The city might have survived the Blitz, he told Cathy, but at this rate half the population would be thinking hard about evacuation.
