Cut to Black

Chapter six

WEDNESDAY, 19 MARCH 2003, 17.00

Faraday, alone in Eadie Sykes's se afront flat, gazed out at the rain.

Ten minutes ago, he'd finally brought the session with the u/c officer to an end. In an hour or so, he'd have to drive down to the historic dockyard for yet another meet with Willard. For now, though, he owed himself a pause for thought.

Eadie rented her flat from her ex-husband, a successful accountant, and the block lay on the se afront within sight of South Parade pier. It had once been a hotel but the kind of holiday makers who booked for a week or a fortnight had long since fled to Spain, and the building, like so many others in the terrace, had been converted into apartments.

Eadie's was at the very top, a big, open space that she'd floored with maple wood and garnished with the bare minimum of furniture. Over the last year or so, Faraday had sometimes wondered about an extra chair or two, something to make it cosier, but Eadie always insisted that the whole point of the place was the view, and in this, as in so much else, Faraday knew she was right.

Four floors up, a stone's throw from the beach, the apartment offered a seat in the dress circle. Away to the left, the rusting gauntness of the pier. Offshore, the busy comings and goings of countless ferries, warships, fishing boats, yachts, their passage fenced by the line of buoys that dog-legged out towards the English Channel. Beyond them, the low, dark swell of the Isle of Wight.

Faraday had lost count of the number of times he'd stood here, marvelling at the play of light, at the constant sense of movement, at the way a line of squall showers could march up the Solent, bringing with it a thousand variations of sunshine and shadow. Today, though, was different. Today there was only a grey blanket of thickening drizzle and the grim, squat shape of Spit Bank Fort.

Eadie kept her binoculars on a hook beside the big glass doors that opened onto the recessed balconette. They'd been a Christmas present from Faraday, an unsuccessful down payment on birding expeditions together, and now he slid back one of the tall plate-glass doors and raised the binos. The optics were excellent, even on a day like this.

The skirt of green weed around the bottom of the fort told Faraday it was low tide. Above the weed, an iron landing stage looked newly painted. A big grey inflatable hung on a pair of davits and a staircase ran upwards to double doors set into the granite walls. One of the doors was open, an oblong of black, and higher still Faraday's binoculars found a white structure the size of a mobile home perched on the roof of the fort.

He lingered a moment, wondering what it might be like to live on a site like this, to wake up every morning to views of Southsea se afront across the churning tide, then he let the binos drift down again until he was following a line of open gun ports. Spit Bank Fort, he thought, looked exactly the way you'd imagine: unlovely, purposeful, thousands of tons of iron and granite dedicated to the preservation of the city at its back.

Faraday permitted himself a smile. Over the years, he'd talked to old men in Milton pubs who remembered the last war. There'd been ack-ack guns on Southsea Common, barrage balloons ringing the dockyard, and Spit Bank Fort would undoubtedly have played its own part in protecting the city against the swarms of Luftwaffe bombers. Odd, then, that a German should find herself in charge here. And odder still that Bazza Mackenzie, Pompey born and bred, should choose this sturdy little piece of military history to mark his coronation. King of the City indeed.

Wallace's two phone conversations with Mackenzie had been taped, the transcripts and cassettes locked in Willard's office safe. According to Wallace, Mackenzie had been up front, even matey, one businessman talking to another. He'd wanted to gauge the strength of Wallace's interest and he'd been blunt enough to ask whether Wallace really knew what he was getting into.

Mackenzie said he'd been out to the fort three or four times and taken a good nose round. The place, he warned, was damp as fuck. The roof needed a total sort-out and some days if you talked to the right people they didn't have enough buckets to cope with all the leaks. Health and Safety would be taking a hard look at some of the exterior ironwork and he wouldn't be at all surprised if they red-carded the lot. On top of that, there were problems with the well that supplied the fort with fresh water and if he was honest you'd be looking to rewire the whole place as well as shelling out for a new generator. That's why his bid was so low. Pay anything close to the million and a quarter quid she was asking, and you'd be adding half that again easy for the refurb.

Wallace had ridden out the warnings and when Mackenzie, in the most recent conversation, had begun to press him about his own funding he'd kept things deliberately vague. He said he'd been lucky with a shopping development in Oman. Currency fluctuations had gone in his favour. A big investment in euros had netted him a small fortune and there were other bits and pieces that kept his bank manager more than happy. This last phrase had stopped Mackenzie in his tracks, and shortly afterwards he'd dropped his conversational guard to offer what to Wallace sounded like a buy-off. "What would it take," Mackenzie had mused, 'for you to pull out?"

Wallace had parried the offer with a chuckle. Money, he told Mackenzie, was the last thing he needed. Neither was he up for a compensatory slice of whatever business Mackenzie had in mind for the fort. No, his own interest was quite clear. Various trips abroad, he'd seen what a good architect could do with a site like this. He wanted to turn Spit Bank into one of Europe's most unusual five-star hotels. On Nick Hayder's prompting, he'd added that he might even be considering gaming facilities.

This last conversation had hit the buffers shortly afterwards but one phrase in particular had stuck in Wallace's mind. "This is a funny town," Mackenzie had said, 'but you won't know that until you've lived here a bit." This observation had struck Wallace as a warning and he'd pressed Mackenzie on the kind of time scale he had in mind. What did 'bit' mean? Mackenzie, it seemed, had laughed down the phone. "A lifetime," he'd said. "Anything less, and you're fucking playing at it."

Faraday's own session with Wallace had concluded with a handshake and an exchange of mobile numbers. The u/c, it turned out, was keeping his visits to Portsmouth to an absolute minimum. Faraday got the impression Wallace had another u/c job on the go, different legend, but he certainly seemed to have plenty to keep himself occupied. Wallace had reported Mackenzie's interest in a face-to-face meeting and he'd been waiting for Nick Hayder to make some kind of decision. With Hayder now in hospital, that decision would presumably pass to Faraday.

Now, Faraday stepped back into the big living room, closing the glass door behind him. His previous experience of undercover operations had given him none of Nick Hayder's confidence and he'd heard enough about Bazza Mackenzie to suggest he'd be an exceptionally difficult target to sting. The problem with jobs like Tumbril was their very isolation.

Walled off from real life, it would be all too easy to talk yourself into a result.

Faraday helped himself to a banana from the fruit bowl in the kitchen.

The TV zapper lay beside the bowl and he pointed it across the room towards the wide screen television.

The TV was tuned to BBC News 24. In Paris, according to the presenter, President Chirac was expressing shock and dismay at the American build-up on the Iraqi border. UN Resolution 1441 was not an authorisation to go to war and even at this late stage he found it inconceivable that President Bush would put the framework of international order at risk. Thank God for the French, Faraday thought. He slipped out his mobile and dialled Eadie's number, watching yet more footage of British tanks on the move. To his surprise, she didn't answer.

To J-J.s relief, getting back into the Old Portsmouth apartment block was no problem. Daniel Kelly was standing in his first-floor window, visibly anxious, and the street door yielded at once to Eadie Sykes's touch. She led the way upstairs, carrying the camera box and a lightweight tripod. J-J followed with two lights on stands and an armful of cabling.

Daniel met them halfway down the hall. Pale and sweating, he blocked the path to his flat, ignoring Eadie. J-J looked down at his outstretched hand.

"What's going on?" It was Eadie. "Someone like to tell me?"

J-J edged past Daniel, fending him off with the light stands. When the student pursued him down the hall, he made an awkward bolt for the open door at the end. The flat smelled of burning toast and the air was blue with smoke. J-J dumped the light stands and the cabling in the lounge, reaching the kitchen in time to rescue the grill pan. Two slices of Mighty White were on fire and he smothered them with a washing-up cloth. Daniel stood in the door, oblivious to this small domestic drama.

"Where is it?" he kept saying. "Where's the gear?"

J-J had tipped the remains of the toast into the sink. The grill pan hissed beneath the cold-water tap. He turned back to Daniel and began to sign, tapping his watch. Maybe an hour, maybe two, but soon, I promise. Then came a movement in the lounge next door and Eadie appeared behind Daniel. She was staring at a plastic syringe and a battered old spoon readied on one of the work surfaces. Daniel was still demanding an answer. It wasn't hard to connect the two.

"You scored for him?"

J-J shook his head.

"Then how come…?" She'd spotted the belt Daniel would need to raise a vein. "Are you out of your mind?"

The student turned on her, angry now. He hadn't a clue who she was but this was his flat, his property. She had absolutely no right to barge in or pass judgement. He'd thought J-J was interested in realities, in what it meant to make certain decisions, certain choices. If that was still the case, no problem. If it wasn't, he could go and poke his camera into someone else's life.

Eadie blinked. Few people ever talked to her like this.

"We came because I understood we were invited," she said. "And it's my camera. Just for the record."

She looked witheringly at J-J, then stepped back into the living room.

Through the open door, J-J watched her beginning to unpack the Sony Digicam. Daniel ignored her. He demanded to know what the guys at Pennington Road had said. He asked whether there was any point trying them on their mobile number. Curiously, thought J-J, he never once mentioned the money.

"You ready, guys…?"

It was Eadie again. Calmer now, she wanted to know where Daniel would like to sit, the spot where he felt most comfortable.

"Comfortable?" The word raised a bitter smile. "You really don't have a clue, do you?"

"You're right. That's why we're here. Chair by the TV be OK?"

Daniel shrugged and turned away, shaking his head. Then he began to hug himself, rocking backwards and forwards, his body hunched, his eyes shut, a man caught naked in a bitter wind.

"They drop it off by car," he muttered. "They ring the bell three times and I just go down." Daniel looked up at J-J, those big moist yellow eyes. "You'll stay with me? Help me?"

J-J nodded, easing Daniel gently out of the kitchen. Maybe an hour or two in bed might help.

Back in the living room, Eadie had set up the tripod and the camera.

Lights ringed the armchair beside the TV and now she was arranging a line of books on the shelf behind.

"Daniel," she said brightly, "I think we're about ready. That OK with you?"

The student paused, looking blankly at the waiting film set "Anything." He began to shiver again. "I don't care."

The interview, according to the time code generated by the digital camera, started at 17.34. Eadie Sykes, after the earlier bump in the road, was determined to smooth out any differences between them. She was grateful for Daniel's trust. What they were about to do was enormously important in all kinds of ways and she wanted to repeat what J-J had doubtless already established: that this was Daniel's video, Daniel's views, Daniel's life, and no one else's.

"You understand me, Daniel?"

In the camera's viewfinder, J-J watched her big freckled hand reach out. The student shuddered under her touch. The way he kept moving in the chair meant holding the shot wider than J-J would have liked, though it felt a mercy to be able to spare him the usual close-up.

"You want to start by telling me how it all began?" Eadie might have been talking to a child.

Daniel stared at her, uncomprehending. It was hot under the lights, and his big waxy face was bathed in sweat. Eadie prompted him again, an edge to her voice this time, and slowly he began to claw his way backwards through his life, picking up fragments here and there, trying to tease some sense, some logic, from the decisions he appeared to have made. Strangely enough, thought J-J, the very effort this involved seemed to ease some of his pain.

He'd first tried smack in Oz. He was staying in a youth hostel in Queensland big place, popular with students. He'd plenty of money but he'd chosen the youth hostel because he was lonely. A backpacker from Dublin had scored some heroin in Brisbane and sold him enough for an introductory smoke.

To Daniel's surprise, it was no big deal. He'd felt pleasantly sleepy, maybe a bit queasy afterwards. He certainly had no great desire to repeat the experience and remembered asking his new Irish friend what all the fuss was about. Given a choice between smack and a good bottle of Hunter Valley Chardonnay there was, he said, no contest.

A couple of years later, give or take, he'd tried it again. By now he was back in the UK and this time it was very different. He'd fallen in love with a dropout student from Godalming, a girl called Jane. She was already developing a sizeable heroin habit and had a real mistrust, almost a hatred, of straights. Just to stay alongside her, talk to her, be with her, meant using smack. To Daniel, it had seemed a price worth paying.

Within a couple of months Jane had dumped him for a failed rock musician. All Daniel was left with was a broken heart and a four-wrap-a-day heroin habit. Oddly enough, the smack helped. It was at this time that he stopped smoking it and began injecting. Injecting was a buzz. All his life he'd been afraid of needles but now, to his great satisfaction, he couldn't wait. There was an art to it, a right and a wrong way. He always used a sterile works. He always washed the spoon in boiling water. It was, he said, almost sacramental.

He turned his head away from the camera, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Eadie had visibly relaxed. For weeks, she'd been hunting for a junkie, any junkie, who was prepared to make a stab at an interview. Finding someone as articulate and self-deceived as this was manna from heaven.

"Sacramental how?"

Daniel seemed surprised by this voice beyond the lights, this sudden intrusion. He shifted in the chair again and began to scratch himself.

"I had respect for it," he said at last. "It held my life together. I could depend on it. It was my friend."

"Smack had become your friend?"

"Yes."

"Your best friend?"

"My only friend." He closed his eyes. "People don't understand about heroin. Treat it right and it looks after you. You can rely on it.

You know what I'm saying?"

"I think so, yes." Eadie was picking her words with care. "Tell me how you feel at the moment."

"Horrible. Cramps. Pains. Everything." His eyes were still closed.

"And heroin?"

"Heroin will take the pains away. That's what it does. It makes it possible to be me again. It gives me peace. A peace he was staring into the far distance now, his face a mask 'so vast it's like waking up in some cathedral. It's huge. It's yours. It belongs to no one else.

If you've never been there, never had this feeling, it's impossible to describe it. Like I said, a sacrament." His chin went down on his chest and his whole body began to shudder.

Eadie glanced up at J-J, who stepped back from the camera, meaning to offer Daniel some kind of privacy, but Eadie caught him by the arm.

She signed, "We haven't finished." She turned back to the student.

"Daniel? You're OK to carry on?"

He nodded slowly. He looked bewildered.

"Is it time yet?"

"Time for what?"

"Time for the guys… You know…" He nodded, pleading, towards the street.

"No, not quite yet. Soon, Daniel, but not quite yet. You really think heroin is a friend? The way you're feeling now?"

"That's not smack. Smack makes that better."

"How much better?"

"That's a stupid question. Feel what I feel and you'd know."

"But I'm not feeling what you feel, Daniel. That's why I want you to talk about it."

He stared at her, his hands crabbing along the arms of the chair.

"This is hard," he mumbled at last. "You can't believe how hard this is."

"I know, Daniel. Just try."

"I don't know what you want."

"I want you to talk about now, about the state you're in, about the way you feel. Can you do that for me?" Eadie was leaning forward.

"Daniel?"

The eyes had strayed towards the window again and J-J suddenly sensed where this interview was going. Heroin really was Daniel's friend. As his life had closed around him, taking him prisoner, it was the one thing, the one sensation, the one constant, on which he could depend.

Take heroin away, and there'd be nothing left.

"I used to think I could stop." The voice was barely a whisper. "But I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to. Sarah says I'm crazy. She may be right but that's not the point, is it? Maybe I like being crazy."

"And feeling like shit?"

"Yes, but shit happens, everyone knows that. Shit happens and then everything is OK again. You know why? Because I get to shoot up.

That's all I want to do just now. Go into that kitchen and shoot up."

"And the next time?"

"I'll do it again. And the time after that. I'll do it forever and then I'll die. Hey…" He forced a smile. "Nice thought."

"Dying?"

"Doing it forever."

His hand went to his mouth. He sat absolutely still for a moment or two, then jack-knifed forward in the chair and began to retch.

Instinctively, J-J panned the camera slowly down, following a thin green thread of vomit onto the patterned carpet. Glassy-eyed, Daniel wiped his mouth and tried to apologise. Eadie had spotted a box of tissues. She leaned across, mopping up the vomit, stealing a glance at the camera to make sure J-J was still taping.

From the entry phone on the wall in the hall came a single ring, then two more. Daniel was on his feet, heading out of the room. Seconds later, Eadie heard the door open and the sound of footsteps as he ran for the stairs.

"You got it all?" she signed.

J-J nodded. He knew exactly what was going to happen next and he knew as well that he wanted no part of it. Watching someone in this kind of pain had begun to disgust him.

"Ready?" Eadie signed that she wanted the camera off the tripod.

Shoulder-mounted, J-J could follow the action wherever it led.

J-J shook his head. You do it.

"You're serious?" Eadie stared at him a moment, then abandoned the soiled tissue and began to un clamp the camera. By the time Daniel reappeared, she'd wedged herself in a corner of the room, the shot nicely framed on the open door. J-J retreated to the window. In the street below, a red Cavalier was disappearing in the direction of Southsea. He watched until it rounded a distant corner. For once, he was glad he was deaf.

"Just ignore me, Daniel. Pretend I'm not here."

Eadie had followed Daniel into the kitchen. The student was fumbling with one of the wraps. In the background stood the kettle he'd just plugged in. He tore at the Sellotape and began to empty the contents of the wrap into the waiting spoon. In the viewfinder the heroin was dirty brown, the colour of dried mud. From a plastic Jiffy container came a squirt or two of lemon juice, beginning to dissolve the powder.

Daniel tested the kettle with the back of his hand, then decanted a little of the water into the bowl of the spoon before propping the handle on a box of matches. Next, in close-up, came the belt. He wound it round his upper arm, leaving it loosely secured while he stirred the concoction with the end of a match. Moments later, he uncapped the syringe with his teeth and drew swampy liquid into the barrel. A biro lay beside the spoon. He slipped the biro beneath the belt he'd wrapped round his arm and began to twist. A vein appeared, a tiny blue snake amongst the yellowing bruises below his elbow. Trapping the tourniquet against his ribcage, he prodded the vein with the flat of his thumb, then retrieved the syringe and laid the needle against his flesh before working it slowly in.

A single drop of blood formed. There was a brief moment of absolute silence and then, as Eadie slowly panned the camera up to Daniel's face, there came a sound that was to stay with her for days to come. It began as a gasp and expired as a sigh. It spoke of surprise, of delight, of relief, of immense satisfaction, and she caught the clatter of the falling biro as she swung round with the camera, following Daniel out of the kitchen. He still had the syringe in his arm, empty now, and he began to sway and stumble as he made his way to bed.

His bedroom was next to the bathroom. The single bed was unmade, a flower-patterned duvet in a heap on the floor, and Eadie paused in the open doorway, the shot perfectly framed, as Daniel, still fully clothed, climbed into bed. He looked like a drunk, every movement slowed to half speed, a man easing himself through an ocean of sweetness. He struggled briefly upright and leaned out of the bed, plucking at the duvet, missing, plucking again, then finally dragged half of it off the floor. Flat on his back again, his eyes were closed. Eadie's finger found the zoom control and the shot slowly tightened. By the time his face filled the viewfinder, Daniel Kelly was smiling.

Faraday sat on a bollard on the quay side overlooking the harbour, waiting for Willard's Jaguar to appear. The rain had stopped now and the sky was beginning to clear from the west. Evenings like this, mid March, the sunsets could be spectacular, shafts of livid sunshine slanting across the city, and he thought of Eadie Sykes out on the balconette, toasting the view with her first glass of Cotes du Rhone.

Recently, watching her with J-J, he'd concluded that she'd become the mother his son had never had. She'd built a real kinship with the boy.

She'd become his mentor, his pathfinder, his guide. She was teaching him all she knew. She stuck by him in difficult situations. And all of that, in Faraday's view, probably added up to motherhood. Janna had died when J-J was barely a couple of months old. Only now, twenty-three years later, had he discovered a woman he could rely on.

Rely on? Faraday shook his head. Relationships, as he knew to his own cost, could be brutal. A woman called Marta had made him happier than he'd ever been in his life. Losing her had taken him to places so dark he shuddered to remember them.

J-J, too, had tasted this kind of despair. His guileless passion for life, the unconditional trust he put in virtual strangers, exposed him to all kinds of risks and a year-long relationship with a French social worker had nearly broken his heart. But his son had somehow emerged from this encounter more or less intact and was still hungry for the next of life's little tests whereas Faraday was increasingly aware of his own vulnerability.

Eadie Sykes had blown into his life with the force of a gale. He loved her gutsiness, her candour, her absolute refusal to compromise. She surprised him constantly, and he loved that as well. But, unlike J-J, he was always alert for the unforeseen twist. In ways he was ashamed to admit, he almost expected betrayal.

Willard had left his Jaguar outside the dockyard. He was wearing a heavy-duty sailing anorak and a pair of yellow waterproofs to match. He stole up on Faraday, standing over him as he stared out across the harbour.

"The rib should be here any minute. I belled them just now."

Faraday looked up at him, faintly surprised at the interruption.

"Rib?"

"Big inflatable. They use it to ferry stuff back and forth. Wallace tell you about the fort?"

"Yes'

"Neat, eh?"

"Let's hope so."

"And the chats with Mackenzie? All that?"

"He told me they'd spoken a couple of times on the phone." Faraday got to his feet. "Mackenzie wants him out of the running. No surprises there."

Willard was beginning to look irritated, and Faraday forced himself back into the world of Operation Tumbril. According to Wallace, the idea for the original sting had come from Nick Hayder but Willard would have been quick to spot the potential. Scalps were important to Det-Supts and Mackenzie's would be a serious battle honour. There were rumours on Major Crimes that Willard had his eyes on promotion maybe even head of CID and putting a full flag level three away would do him no harm at all.

Willard was watching the harbour entrance, his eyes narrowed against the flaring sun. When Faraday asked him how much the fort's owner, the German woman, knew about the sting, he smiled. Spit Bank, he said, had been offered for sale by the Ministry of Defence in the '80s. The buyer, an ex-boatyard owner, had spent a fortune getting it into some kind of shape. Fifteen years later, he'd sold it on to a wealthy businessman, eager to find a project for his wife.

"This is the German woman?"

"Gisela Mendel. You'll meet her in a minute. Peter Mendel's an arms broker, covers the gaps between the defence salespeople in the MOD and the dodgier foreign governments. It's a semi-Whitehall job. He's security-cleared, full PV."

The positive vetting, Willard said, made him a perfect partner in the sting against Mackenzie. Given his relationship with the MOD, there was no way he'd hazard the operation.

"And the wife?"

"She runs a series of language modules for Fort Monkton. Four-week total immersion courses out on Spit Bank, any language of your choice.

She charges the earth."

"Monkton's MI6."

"That's right. That's why she's PV'd as well. Hayder couldn't believe his luck. All he had to do was write the script."

Faraday could imagine Nick Hayder's glee. Fort Monkton was a government-run training establishment across the harbour in leafy Alverstoke. Screened by trees and an eight-foot wire fence, it turned out spies for MI6. Posted abroad, languages were a must. Hence, Faraday assumed, the success of Gisela Mendel's little enterprise.

"So how did you play it?"

"Gisela put the word round a couple of local estate agencies, pretending the fort was up for sale, just the way we asked her.

Mackenzie was onto her within a day."

"She knows who Mackenzie is? His background?"

"No, he's just a punter as far as she's concerned, someone who's made a pile of money and now wants somewhere really high-profile."

"And you think she believes that?"

"She's never told me otherwise." Willard permitted himself a rare smile. "You hear about the football club?"

"No."

"Mackenzie tried to buy in. He was after an eleven per cent stake.

With that kind of holding, he'd be looking to take Pompey over."

"And?"

"They saw him coming and knocked the deal on the head. After that, he made a play for the pier."

"South Parade?"

"Yeah. Problem there was he put in a silly bid and tried to snow them with all kinds of pressure. They got so pissed off in the end, they pulled the plug, and you can hardly blame them. Mackenzie's so used to dealing with low life that he forgets his manners. Quote the guy an asking price, and he instantly divides by ten. Ten. That's not negotiation, that's robbery. The pier people walked, big time, and then one of them found himself talking to Nick."

This conversation, according to Willard, sowed a seed in Nick Hayder's ever-fertile mind. By this time, Tumbril had abandoned any thought of baiting the usual investigative traps. There was no way Mackenzie allowed himself anywhere near the distribution system and therefore no prospect of scooping him up with half a kilo of uncut Peruvian. The other strategy following the money might, in the end, achieve the same result via a money-laundering conviction but Tumbril's hotshot accountant was talking another three months minimum with the calculator and the spreadsheets and both Hayder and Willard himself were nervous that headquarters' patience might not stretch that far. Somehow or other, there had to be another way.

"So?" Faraday was beginning to warm to this conversation. At last, he thought, the pieces are beginning to fit.

"So Hayder took a good look at what happened with Mackenzie over the pier. Number one, the guy's determined to get his name up there in lights. He owes it to himself, to his mates. He wants the world to know there's nothing he can't buy. Number two, he's after a casino."

"A casino?"

"Sure. Make Mackenzie's kind of money and the big problem is washing it all. You can carry it out of the country and stuff it in foreign accounts. You can treat yourself to a couple of Picassos. You can buy into legit businesses, bricks and mortar, whatever. If you've got the patience, you can even launder it through bureaux de change. Brian Imber will be giving you the full brief tomorrow but the truth is we're knocking all these options on the head. Believe me, it's getting hard to wash dodgy money. A casinos solves a lot of that. Plus he smiled 'there was still the question of profile."

A casino on the pier would have been the answer to Mackenzie's dreams.

Punters would flood in, the tables would magic dirty money into legitimate winnings, and everyone in Pompey would know that Bazza Mackenzie had finally made it.

"So Nick started looking for another property, another proposition. You know he used to go running?"

"Still will, when he's better."

"Sure. So he was out there one weekend, hammering along the se afront when bosh he's staring out to sea and he suddenly realises the answer.

Spit Bank Fort. This is him talking, not me."

Faraday knew it was true. He could hear Nick Hayder's voice, picture him leaning into the conversation, his head lowered, his hands chopping the air. This was the way the man had always operated, total conviction, turning a gleam in the eye into a string of successful prosecutions. The latter happened way down the line, but without the wit and the balls to pull some truly original stroke, the bad guys were home free.

"Mackenzie put a bid in?"

"At once. 200,000. Said it had to be rock bottom because sorting the place out would cost a fortune. Gisela wouldn't drop a penny under the asking price. One and a quarter million."

Slowly, week by week, Mackenzie had gone to 550,000, each new trip to the fort confirming the vision that had begun to obsess him. A glass dome, he'd told Gisela, would seal the interior from wind and rain.

Punters could look down on the gaming floor from the upper deck.

Croupiers would be dressed in period blue artillery tunics. Girlies in naughty Parisian gear would serve drinks and canapes. And every night, with the gaming over, there'd be yet more boodle stashed away in the thick-walled cartridge magazines deep in the bowels of the fort. Spit Bank, to Hayder's delight, had become Mackenzie's dream fantasy, the clinching evidence that the Copnor boy had well and truly made it.

"That's why Wallace came as a bit of a shock. He was Mackenzie's wake-up call."

Faraday was trying to put himself in Mackenzie's shoes. After all the plans, all the gloating phone calls to his mates, came the sudden news that some total stranger had stepped into the city and virtually doubled his bid. As a wind-up, it was undeniably sweet. But as a potential sting, thought Faraday, it still had some way to go.

"Mackenzie's after a meet. Before Wallace puts the surveyors in."

"I know." Willard nodded. "We needed to back Mackenzie up against a deadline, make him sweat. That's why Wallace has the surveyors on standby for Friday next week. My guess is we're probably talking Wednesday or Thursday for the meet."

Faraday smiled. He was thinking of Wallace in the hotel room earlier.

The over-loud tie, the ear stud, the brash little touches. Young guy on the make. Clever.

"You really think Mackenzie has him down as a dealer? Same line of business?"

"That's the plan."

"And you think he believes it?"

"I'll be disappointed if he doesn't."

Faraday turned the proposition over in his mind. Turf was important, whatever line of business you happened to be in. The last thing Mackenzie needed was serious competition, and in a city like Portsmouth there was an added complication. Pompey belonged to her own. Intruders like Wallace needed reminding of that.

"So how will Mackenzie play it? Violence? Half a dozen mates round the corner?"

"Maybe." Willard shrugged. "Or he might just try buying him off. If he's silly enough to talk drugs, or some kind of co-distribution deal, we're home and dry. If it's a straightforward bung, he's still exposed himself. Either way, we end up with evidence. And not before time, eh?"

Willard broke off. He'd picked up the distant thump-thump of a fast inflatable and he turned in time to catch the rib powering down for the passage up-harbour. The controls were manned by a slight, solitary figure in a blue anorak. Minutes later, Willard was doing the introductions.

"Gisela Mendel." Willard nodded towards Faraday. "Joe Faraday. I mentioned him on the phone."

Faraday smiled hello. Her handshake was businesslike. The big outboards were still idling below them. She needed to be back at the fort asap.

"No problem."

Willard had taken charge, bending to slip the rope she'd made fast to the bollard, and Faraday sensed at once that there was something between them. He'd rarely seen Willard so animated, so eager. He seemed to have shed years.

Faraday clambered down into the inflatable and zipped up his anorak.

Gisela, behind her dark glasses, was waiting for Willard to cast off.

Her hand was ready on the twin throttles perfect nails, blood red. When she turned to check the clearance beyond the bow, the last of the sunshine shadowed the planes of her face. Mid forties, thought Faraday. Maybe less.

Once Willard was on board, she eased away from the jetty, burbling out towards the harbour. The wind was stronger here, the slap of halyards against the masts of a line of moored yachts, and once they'd cleared the harbour entrance, she pushed the throttles wide open against the stops.

The inflatable responded at once, surging forward, and Faraday braced himself, glad he'd rescued a woollen scarf from the Mondeo. Willard was sitting beside him, oblivious to the freezing spray. Twice he shouted something to Gisela but the wind and the roar of the outboards carried his words away. Watching her at the wheel, Faraday realised how often she must have made this journey. She rode the inflatable like a horse, with immense skill, driving it hard at the oncoming waves then nudging left and right as she felt for the grain of the flooding tide. Over towards Ryde, Faraday could see the bulk of a container ship, outward bound from Southampton, and when he looked back towards the shoreline he thought he could just make out the line of apartments next to South Parade pier, white in the gathering dusk.

The tidal stream around the fort, a foaming river of water, made berthing tricky. Faraday could smell the dampness of the place, sense the history behind the glistening granite blocks. Willard was playing the sailor again, doing his best to grab a stanchion as the inflatable surged up and down, and Faraday caught the expression on Gisela's face as she nudged the bow towards the waiting pair of hands on the landing stage above them. She looked amused.

A rope ladder provided access to the landing stage. Willard caught a wave as he waited a second too long and was soaking wet by the time Faraday hauled him upwards. Gisela was the last off, leaving the inflatable to be secured for the return trip.

They followed her into the fort. It was nearly dark now, and the vaulted passageway that led to the central courtyard was softly lit by wall lights cleverly recessed into the granite walls. There were more of these feminine touches in the courtyard itself tubs of year-round flowers, a sturdy little palm tree, tables and chairs warmed by a thicket of space heaters but there was no disguising the essence of this place. A sense of military purpose hung over everything. It was there in the brick-lined casemates around the edge of the courtyard, in the iron spiral staircase that disappeared into the bowels of the fort, in the hand-lettered notices that Gisela had so carefully preserved.

Number 14 Store Hammocks, read one. Caution Shell Lift, warned another.

"We use these two as classrooms. The rest is accommodation." Gisela had paused outside one of the casemates.

Faraday peered in. Perhaps a dozen figures sat at individual desks. A tutor was standing at the front, a map of the Balkans on the blackboard behind him. One of the women in the class had her hand in the air.

"You want to eavesdrop?"

"No." It was Willard. The soaking on the ladder had tested his sense of humour. He wanted a towel and something hot to drink.

"So." Gisela's English carried the faintest trace of a foreign inflection. "Upstairs, then."

She led the way across the courtyard and up another flight of steps. At the top, Faraday recognised the white structure he'd glimpsed earlier from Eadie's flat. A newly painted door opened into a tiny lobby. It was suddenly warm inside and there was a smell of fresh flowers. This was obviously where Gisela lived.

"You know where the bathroom is. I'll make tea."

Willard disappeared and Faraday followed Gisela into a living room. The wide picture windows faced north, across the deep-water shipping lane, and Faraday could make out the line of coloured lights that ran the length of Southsea promenade. Beyond them, in the gloom, the black spire of St. Jude's church.

"You drink tea?" Her voice came through a hatch from the galley kitchen.

"Please. Two sugars."

Faraday gazed round. The room had been furnished with some care, neat rather than cosy. A compact, two-seat sofa faced the window. There was a television in one corner and a fold-down table in another. The laptop on the table was open and the screen saver featured a view down an Alpine valley. Faraday's attention was caught by a framed photo propped beside a row of paperbacks in the bookcase above the table. It showed Gisela in a striking yellow hat beside a heavy-set man in his middle fifties. The man was bowing. Gisela was performing an elegant curtsey. The third figure in the photograph was the Queen.

"Buck House garden party." Willard had emerged from the bathroom.

"Hubby got the CBE."

"For?"

"Services to the nation. Merchant of death."

"He lives here, too?"

"Visits very occasionally. They've got a place up in Henley, river frontage, paddocks for the horses, the lot. You could fit Kingston Crescent into the walled garden with room to spare."

Faraday at last turned round. Willard had found a sweater from somewhere, an expensive polo neck in black cashmere wool, almost a perfect fit. The man in the photo, thought Faraday. Similar build.

Gisela returned with a tray of tea. She turned off the laptop and made space on the table. Willard organised another couple of chairs from the room next door and then got down to business. For Faraday's benefit, he wanted Gisela to describe her dealings with Bazza Mackenzie.

Gisela was looking amused again, that same expression, and Faraday found himself wondering quite where this relationship parted company with Tumbril. Willard never let anyone in the job anywhere near his private life but there'd always been rumours that the partner in Bristol wasn't quite enough.

"He phoned first, very friendly. That was a couple of months ago. Just after Christmas. He'd heard this place was for sale and he wanted to come out and take a look. He arrived next day."

"Alone?"

"No. He came with a couple of friends, both of them older. Tommy?"

She was looking at Willard. l]aV "Tommy Cross." Willard nodded. "Used to work in the dockyard. Bazza uses him as a cut-price structural engineer, sorts out the conversions when Mackenzie's in the mood for another cafe-bar. It was Tommy who gave this place the once-over. Stayed most of the day, didn't he?

Drove you mad?" He flashed a smile at Gisela.

"That's right. Lunch and supper. It was dark by the time they went."

Within twenty-four hours, she said, Mackenzie had been back on the phone. He'd drawn up a contract. He had a price in mind. All Gisela had to do was sign.

"As simple as that?" It was Faraday's turn to smile. This was where Mackenzie's list of problems must have come from. Letting Tommy Cross loose on a structure like Spit Bank Fort might have been the best investment Mackenzie ever made. Except that Gisela wasn't having it.

"I turned him down. 200,000 was a joke and I told him so. It cost me 385,000 before I even started."

"What did he say?"

"He laughed. He said he didn't blame me. He also said something else."

"What was that?"

"He said I was a nightmare to do business with."

"Why?"

"Because I was tasty as well as clever."

"He said that? Tasty? That was the word he used?"

"Yes. I think he meant it as a compliment. To be honest, I didn't care. That's the kind of person he is. In your face. Right there."

She held her hand in front of her nose. "After some of my husband's clients, believe me, that's a relief."

"You liked him?"

"Yes, I do. He's not frightened of women. And he's straightforward, too. A silly offer like 200,000? All I have to do is say no. I can live with that."

Within a week, Mackenzie was back on the phone. He'd had a bit of a think. He could go to 250,000. Once again, Gisela just laughed.

"And it went on," she said. "Another 10,000, another 10,000. In the end I said there were easier ways to chat a woman up. He agreed."

"So what happened?"

"He invited me out. We went to Gunwharf, Forty Below. You know it?"

Faraday nodded. Forty Below featured in most of the weekend disturbance reports. Ambulance crews set their clocks by Friday night's first call to a serious affray. This woman could take her pick of Europe's finest restaurants. Only Bazza Mackenzie would treat her to Forty Below.

"How did you get on?"

"Fine. He made me laugh. I liked that."

"And the fort? The business?"

"He said he had to have it. He told me all about his plans, the casino, the decor, the kind of food he wanted to serve, special suites for honeymooners. He was like a kid with a new toy. It was sweet, really."

"And the price?"

"He'd got to 400,000."

"So what did you say?"

"No. He said he couldn't go another penny higher but he offered to sleep with me. That would take it up to half a million."

"Sleeping with Mackenzie's worth a hundred grand?" Faraday began to laugh.

"You can hear him on the tapes." Willard was gazing out at the lights of Southsea. "Can you believe that? Mackenzie?

"He's funny," Gisela said again. "I think he meant it as a joke."

Willard ignored this mild reproof. What was important just now was the presence of Wallace in the bidding. By upping the price to 900,000, he explained to Gisela, Tumbril had put the screws on Mackenzie.

"Deep down, the guy's unstable. Everyone knows it. What we need is a deadline. That's where the survey comes in. Part of me says we agree to meet before Friday. He might just compromise himself to sort the whole thing out. Otherwise we leave it a week or so. Wallace gets the thumbs-up from the survey and makes a decision to go ahead. At that point, Mackenzie has to make a move. Either he tops the offer or gets rid of the opposition."

"You really think he'll pay another half million?" Gisela was gazing out into the dark.

"To be frank, no."

"Pity… ' "Oh?" For the first time, Willard was on new ground. "Why's that?"

Gisela studied him a moment, the way you might assess a child's preparedness for bad news, then she touched him lightly on the hand.

"I'm afraid the story's changed. I really do have to sell the place."

She smiled. "And 900,000 in cash would be more than acceptable."

"You're serious?"

"Perfectly."

"May I ask why?"

"Of course." The smile faded. "Peter and I are divorcing."

Misty Gallagher was drunk by the time the cab dropped her off at the Indian Palace. Paul Winter had phoned her earlier, planning to drive down to Gunwharf and pay her a social call, but Misty was adamant that she'd had enough of the apartment. She and Trude had been at it since late afternoon. Another hour of that kind of abuse and she'd take a carving knife to her mouthy daughter.

Winter had his usual table at the back of the restaurant. He'd been coming here for months now and he liked the people who ran it. He gave them all kinds of bullshit but they knew he was lonely and they treated him well. At forty-five, robbed of a wife you'd taken for granted, you appreciated that kind of courtesy.

"Misty. Long time."

He got to his feet and guided her into the waiting chair. She was wearing a see-through black top over a pair of spray-on jeans. Unless Winter was bloody careful, the waiters would be selling tickets at the door.

"Paul…" Her eyes were glassy. "They do wine here?"

"Sure. White?"

"Rose."

"Of course. Mateus OK?" He signalled towards the bar without waiting for an answer. When the waiter came over, he pointed to number 7 on the wine list. "And another Stella for me, son." He turned back to Misty. She was trying to find a lighter for her cigarette. "How's tricks, then, Mist? Still getting it?"

"Fuck off. You know, don't you?"

"Know what?"

"Me and Bazza." She'd found the lighter. "Man's a prick."

Winter did his best to look reproachful. It had been common knowledge for more than a year that Bazza Mackenzie had decided to trade Misty in for a newer model, but he'd somehow assumed that Misty would cope.

Evidently not.

"I caught him in Clockwork the other night with that Italian bitch. Had it out with him then and there."

Clockwork was the hottest of the late-night clubs down by South Parade pier, currently fashionable amongst the city's more successful criminals. Misty, on the wrong end of a bottle of Moet, had found Bazza at the bar with the lovely Lucia and a bunch of his best mates.

Robbed of the power of speech, Misty had ordered another bottle of Moet, hosed him down, and left him with the bill.

"His mates loved it." She had a smile on her face. "Told me I should have done it months ago."

Bazza, enraged, had pursued Misty onto the se afront Lucia had locked herself in the toilets and half the fucking town was in stitches.

Didn't Misty know that times had moved on? Didn't she have any sense of style? Of occasion? These were strokes you just didn't pull any more. Certainly not in public.

"He sent the agent round next day."

"What agent?"

"The estate agent. Bloke I even knew. Told me Baz had decided to put the flat on the market. That fucking day. Vacant possession. Can you believe that? After all the shit I've had to put up with?"

Winter pulled a face. The wine had arrived and he steadied Misty's glass as the waiter did the honours. Given the state of the woman, he estimated he had maybe half an hour to coax any sense out of her.

Tops.

"Tell me about Trude, Mist."

"What about her?"

"We found her in a bit of a state last night. She might have told you."

"She tells me fucking nothing. Except what a cow I am. Can you imagine? That kind of language? Your own fucking daughter}'

Winter reached out, closing his hand over hers. For once in his life he was serious.

"Listen, Mist. We found her in a doss house in Fratton. Someone had given her a thumping and tied her to a bed. You wouldn't have any idea who, would you?"

"Thumping?" Misty was trying to make sense of the word. "My Trude?"

"That's right." He watched Misty reach for the glass. "What do you know about Dave Pullen?"

"He's a shag. At it all the time. He's a disgusting man."

"I know. So what's Trude been doing with him? She's a good-looking girl. Christ, Mist, she could have the pick of blokes her own age — decent blokes, bit of education even. What did she ever see in an ape like Pullen?"

Misty blinked at him, the lightest touch on the brakes. She reached for the glass again, and emptied it.

"Mist…?"

"I dunno."

"But you must have known, must have wondered."

"Of course, yeah." She nodded. "Of course I wondered."

"So what's the answer?"

"I'm telling you, I don't know." She tried to focus on another table across the restaurant, and then stifled a hiccough. "He's an older guy," she said at last. "They know how to listen sometimes, older guys. Bit of sympathy, bit of a shoulder, know what I mean?"

Winter was watching her carefully, remembering Trudy at lunchtime in the Gumbo Parlour. Mother and daughter had fallen out, big time, and Trudy seemed to know exactly where to put the blame.

Misty was splashing yet more Mateus into her glass. Winter hadn't seen a bottle disappear so fast since the last time they met.

"What happened to that nice motor dealer Trude used to live with?" he said at last. "Mike Valentine, wasn't it? Up in Waterlooville?"

"Pass."

"You're telling me you don't know?"

"I haven't a clue. I've told you, I can't get a word out of her. Who she gives it to is a mystery to me. Always has been."

"But she came back to live with you, Mist. And she did that because she must have fallen out with Valentine. There's no way you didn't ask her. I don't believe it."

"Bollocks did I ask her. If you knew the first thing about Trude you'd know she keeps herself to herself. It was like living with a stranger, if you want the truth. Just a shame she hadn't got anywhere else to go. Fucking gloom bag."

"She's angry, Mist. Angry at you. Now why would that be?"

"No idea. Ask her."

"I did."

"When?" The alarm in her eyes told Winter he was getting warm.

"Lunchtime, Mist. Today."

"And what did she say?"

"She didn't. And she wouldn't, my love, because she's careful when she opens her mouth. Unlike her mum."

He held her eyes over the table. Alarm had given way to a cold fury.

Misty got to her feet, clutched the table to steady herself, then yelled at the waiter. She wanted a taxi. She'd had enough of talking to this wanker. In fact she'd had enough of everything.

Winter gazed up at her, wondering how far to take the rest of the conversation. Aqua would have a cab here in moments. Just time to take a punt or two.

"Mike Valentine's in deep with Bazza, Mist." He leaned back in the chair. "Maybe shagging someone that close isn't such a great idea."

"You mean Trude?"

"No, love." He offered her a matey smile. "I mean you."

It was gone eleven by the time Sarah made it round to the flat in Old Portsmouth. She'd spent the last couple of hours at the Students'

Union, celebrating the end of the first draft of her degree dissertation. There was still stuff to do, lots of stuff, but the shape of the thing was there and fifteen thousand plus on the word count deserved a couple of pints of cider.

She kept Daniel's spare keys in a special pocket in her day sack. She stepped in through the street door and made her way upstairs. Outside Daniel's flat, she paused and knocked. This time of night, unless a miracle had happened, he'd be dead to the world, but it still felt more comfortable to announce her presence.

When there was no answer she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open. The flat was in darkness, but the moment she switched on the light she saw that the furniture had been rearranged. This, she knew at once, was confirmation that the video crew had been round. The way the armchair had been positioned nice sense of depth behind the interviewee was exactly what she would have done.

"Dan?"

There was no response. She hesitated a moment, wondering whether to leave him to it. He'd be in bed by now, bound to be, and it might be better to come back tomorrow to find out how the taping had gone. With luck, the whole experience something new in his life might have given him a bit of a nudge. He might even have offered the kind of performance, the kind of analysis, she knew lay within him. That's why the smack was such a tragedy. The guy had a brain. The guy was clever. She'd never met anyone so thoughtful, and so articulate.

She began to turn to leave, then had second thoughts. His bedroom was down the corridor. She paused outside the open door. In the faint spill of light from the lounge, she could just make out the shape of his body, prone beneath the duvet. There was something else, too. A terrible smell.

"Dan?"

The smell was vomit. She knew it.

"Dan? Are you OK?"

Nothing. Her hand found the light switch beside the door. Daniel was lying on his back, his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. A thick stream of vomit had caked on his face, on the side of his neck, on his shoulder.

"Dan?" Her voice began to falter. "Dan…?"