At lunchtime he was hosting a state visit from the Chief Constable and two carloads of assorted worthies. Portsmouth had been chosen as a prime example of a well-run BCU making serious inroads into the Home Office crime target figures. Before the Chief's party arrived, it might be nice to get the latest body count.
Cathy liked Secretan. He radiated exactly the kind of quiet exasperation she herself had turned into a way of life. There was no point, she decided, giving him anything but the truth.
'Good news first, sir. You remember the Scouse lad we picked up at the station? The one we tied to Nick Hayder with the DNA hit? The accident analysis guys think Hayder must have been dragged along for a bit before being thrown off. Then the lad at the wheel went back and ran him over.'
'Nice.' Secretan was staring out of the window. 'You've charged him?'
'Last night, sir. He's still in hospital under guard. He's got no alibi for the Tuesday night. Says he was out of the city but can't remember where.'
'Motive?'
'Hard to say. My guess is that Nick came across him by chance when he was out running, put two and two together, and challenged him. The rest we know.'
'I thought there were two of them?'
'There probably were. We've been trying to nail down the other one for days now, spot of modest entrapment, but it came to nothing. If you're asking me, I'd say the Scousers have buggered off.'
'Why?'
'Pastures new, sir. Plus the Yardies have arrived. As you know.'
Secretan was looking glum. After months of harassment by a specialist Met unit, Jamaican dealers were spilling out of London and looking for profits elsewhere. Operation Trident might have been a high-profile success, tackling black-on-black gun crime, but in Secre-tan's view the problem had been displaced rather than cured. Every Chief Supt's waking nightmare featured Yardie gangs, and in Pompey's case the nightmare was in danger of coming true.
Secretan pushed his chair back from the desk and got to his feet. On a clear day, his office window offered a distant glimpse of the line of forts on top of Portsdown Hill. He stood there for a moment, deep in thought, then turned back to Cathy Lamb.
'Crack houses?' he suggested bleakly. 'Machetes? Glocks? Where does all this bloody end?'
Faraday got to Hampshire Terrace in mid afternoon. He found J-J at the PC, sorting through video rushes from Al Jazeera. On screen, some wary-looking US troops, taken prisoner by the Iraqis, were being paraded for the benefit of the world's press. Watching their faces, Faraday realised just how helpless both armies had become in the face of political decisions taken half a world away. These men were barely out of their teens. For all their hi- tech body armour and helmet-mounted gizmos, they understood nothing of the people they'd been dispatched to liberate. Now, as prisoners of war, they were clearly expecting the worst.
Faraday laid his hand on his son's shoulder, making J-J jump.
'We need a world without politicians,' he signed. 'Can you get that in your video?'
J-J thought about the challenge for a moment or two. Then, to Faraday's immense relief, he grinned.
'Eadie's been looking for you,' he signed back. 'I think she's gone home.'
'Home?'
'The flat.'
Faraday spotted Eadie's battered Suzuki parked on the se afront opposite the converted hotel that housed her apartment. He slipped the Mondeo into an adjoining space and sat behind the wheel for a moment or two, wondering quite how to handle what would inevitably follow.
Willard had made it absolutely plain that Faraday himself was implicated by Ambrym's acceptance of Mackenzie's money. Any investigating senior officer any court would view the tie-up with profound suspicion. On the other hand, the last few days had shaken Faraday to the core, and in ways that surprised him he realised how much he missed this woman's company. Eadie being Eadie, she was probably unaware of any sense of crisis between them but that, in a way, was the point. Eadie was one of the world's great optimists. She had boundless faith in her own abilities and the guts to see a challenge through. The rest, as she so often pointed out, was conversation.
He found her upstairs, perched on a stool by the phone. The moment Faraday appeared, she blew him a kiss and pointed at the kettle. She wanted needed tea. Faraday busied himself with the Earl Grey and managed to find a packet of ginger snaps in the tin she used for biscuits.
The conversation on the phone was becoming heated. No, she had absolutely no intention of making money on this deal. The movie was going into schools at cost price. Given any kind of demand, she could dupe VHS cassettes at fifty pence. Even with postage and packing there couldn't be a school in the country that couldn't afford a couple of quid for a glimpse of the truth. When the voice at the other end started to argue again, she cut him off.
'I don't care a fuck what you think,' she said. 'If it's that important, I'll send you a cheque.' She put the phone down, shaking her head. 'Arsehole.'
'Who was that?'
'Guy called Mackenzie. Turns out he backed my movie. Now he's asking fifty per cent of the profits. Profits? How gross is that?'
'What else did he say?'
'He said he wanted to see it. I told him my pleasure. Then he started up with all this nonsense about marketing and copyright and selling the arse off the thing.'
'Was that his phrase or yours?'
'Please, Joe? Does that sound like me?'
'In some moods, yes.'
'Really? Am I that horrible?'
'Tell me more.' Faraday nodded at the phone.
'That's about it.' Eadie helped herself to a biscuit. 'Doug had obviously sold him the video on the phone and he couldn't wait to turn it into a big fat royalty cheque. So I told him to bugger off. You probably heard.'
Faraday nodded. He'd only met Doug Hughes once. Eadie had spotted him in a pub they sometimes used and had insisted on doing the introductions. Hughes had been with a striking-looking blonde, and on the evidence of five minutes conversation Faraday had rather liked him.
'How does Doug know Mackenzie?'
'Haven't a clue. The man must be seriously wealthy. Doug's silly around that kind of money, always has been. He can't help himself.
Moth to the flame.'
'Have you any idea what Mackenzie does for a living?'
'None. Apart from ripping off Aussie producers.'
'He's a drug dealer.' Faraday saw no point in keeping secrets any more.
'Mackenzie? You're serious?'
'Very. You're really telling me you didn't know?'
'Hadn't a clue. All I saw was the cheque. Without the seven grand, none of this would ever have happened.' She stared at him a moment.
'You want to see the final cut?'
She had a VHS of the video in her day sack. While Faraday poured the tea, she knelt in front of the player and turned on the television.
Moments later, Faraday turned to find himself looking at a close-up of a needle probing for a vein. Eadie sat back on the carpet, totally absorbed. When Faraday joined her with the tea, she leant back into him for support.
'The next bit's incredible,' she murmured. 'Just you watch.'
Winter had spent most of the day calculating exactly when he'd phone Mackenzie. Too early, and he might have time to make inquiries of his own. Too late, and he'd miss the boat.
The ferry left at 11.00 p.m. According to Jimmy Suttle, Trudy, her mum, and Mike Valentine were having an early farewell supper at a restaurant they both liked over in Chichester. After that, they'd be running Trude back to Buriton. One last visit to pick up some things from the house in Waterlooville, then they'd be heading down the A3 to the Continental Ferry port.
