Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

"These are his?"

"In reality, yes. He hides everything behind nominee names because he's not stupid, but yes. These are what keep us going. We've got loads more in the drawer. Properties abroad, local businesses, you name it. Joyce rings the changes every Monday. Just in case we lose motivation."

"That's envy, isn't it?"

"Of course. And frustration, too. If you'd been banged up here all year you'd pretty much feel the same way."

"So who does the legwork, figures-wise?"

"Bloke called Martin Prebble. He's a forensic accountant. Costs us a fortune but he's shit-hot. Give him three million documents and he'll know the ones to sling out. Without him around, we'd still be at base camp."

"So where is he?"

"London. He works for one of the big City firms. We get him two days a week." He glanced round. Joyce had returned to her desk. Imber bent towards Faraday. "I know what you're thinking, Joe, but believe me this is the only way. We've tried everything else the covert, surveillance, informants, plotting the supply chain but like I say, Mackenzie's beyond all that. He's clever, brighter than you might think. He's well advised and he's listened to that advice. The guy's walled himself off from the sharp end. All we're left with is the money. But that's where we can hurt him. By following the money."

Faraday was trying to reconcile this little outburst with something that had stuck in his mind from Willard. Mackenzie's programmed to break the law, he'd said. That's what he does. And that's why we'll have him.

"You really think it's all down to the paperwork?"

"I do."

"No point trying to set him up?"

"None. Like I said, he's too well protected. This way we at least have a fighting chance. As long as we all keep the faith."

"Who's "we"?"

"Who do you think? It's means and ends, Joe. And, to be fair, we've had our share of resources."

"You're telling me there's pressure for a result?"

"Of course there is. There's always pressure for a result. That's why Nick was close to blowing up. A job like this takes time, years and years. We've never thought like that before but then we've never had to. What it boils down to is blokes like Bazza. The man's a billboard. He's up there in lights. He's telling every kid in this city there's no point going to school, no point keeping this side of the law, no point getting your head down and trying to lead a half-decent life. Leave Bazza alone, put him in the Too Difficult basket, chuck in the towel, and we might as well call it a day."

Faraday nodded. He'd heard this from Imber before, almost word for word. For reasons the DS had never revealed, he'd won himself a reputation as a crusader when it came to the drugs issue. Since the mid-eighties, he'd been warning about the impending apocalypse, not simply because of his worries about his own kids, but because his intelligence work had taught him very early on that Class A narcotics would one day fuel an entire economy. Ignore the drugs issue, he'd said, and the consequences would be catastrophic.

Imber's bosses at every level, besieged by the pressures of volume crime, had paid lip service to this relentless lobbying. They read the reports he put together. They even circulated his more measured assessments of developments to come. But it had taken a figure like Bazza Mackenzie to persuade them to give Imber his head. Why? Because Mackenzie's wealth was beginning to taint every corner of the city. And that, in Willard's phrase, was a cop-out too far.

Faraday watched Imber pour himself a glass of juice from the fridge.

Marathon training evidently forbade him any form of caffeine. Finally, he looked up.

"Willard's stuck his neck out," Imber said. "And I admire him for that."

"Easy sell?"

"You're joking. It's not just the resources, it's other coppers. Every one thinks you're trespassing in this game."

"You're supposed to be invisible."

"I know. And thanks to Nick we largely are. But blokes know something's up and they get extremely pissed off."

"Like who?"

"Doesn't matter. I'd give you a list of names but there's no point.

I'm just telling you this thing isn't easy. We're out here on our own and we've got a bloody great mountain to climb. Take on someone like Bazza and you'd be amazed the people you upset."

"Does that bother you?"

"Not in the least. As long as we get a result."

Faraday studied him a moment, aware that Joyce had stopped typing.

"And you think we will get a result?" he said at last.

"I think we have to."

"Despite all the' Faraday frowned 'aggravation?"

"Of course." Imber gave him a long, searching look. "You are up for this, aren't you?"

WEDNESDAY, 19 MARCH 2OO3, 11.50

Winter left his Subaru in the underground car park at Gunwharf Quays and led Suttle up the escalator towards the shopping plaza. It had taken two conversations on the mobile to coax a meet from Trudy Gallagher and, hearing the squawk of seagulls in the background, it gave Winter no comfort at all to realise the obvious. Misty Gallagher lived in one of the Gunwharf apartments overlooking the waterfront.

Trudy had gone back to mum.

The Gumbo Parlour had only just opened. A harassed-looking waitress was at the back of the restaurant, polishing glasses. Winter selected a table by the window and took the seat with the best view.

Beyond the walkway, on the very edge of the harbour, contractors were working on the first stages of the Spinnaker Tower, a 500-foot extravaganza that would, hoped the council, put Pompey on the national map. Winter watched as another bucket of concrete was winched slowly into place, wondering what kind of difference a structure like this would really make. Fans of the tower banged on about the boldness of the gesture, how it spoke of confidence and a new start for the city, but Winter was rather fond of the other Portsmouth, scruffy, blunt, and perfectly happy to muddle through.

Suttle was already browsing the lunchtime choices. Moules a I'Americaine, he thought, sounded nice.

"We're having coffee," Winter told him, 'unless you're paying."

He settled back in his chair, watching a sailing dinghy on the harbour fighting to get out of the way of a huge inbound ferry. Trudy had promised to meet them at noon, and she still had ten minutes in hand.

"You should meet her mum," he told Suttle. "In fact you probably will."

"That's a promise?"

"Health warning. Anything in trousers under thirty, you're talking serious risk assessement."

Misty Gallagher, over the years, had become a legend. Winter had been to parties where she'd taken three men to bed, two of them CID, one a convicted bank robber, and left all of them the best of friends. Bazza Mackenzie, impressed by her contacts as well as her looks, had been shagging her since the mid nineties, setting her up in a series of properties he'd bought for development. More recently, he'd installed her in a third-floor apartment in one of the Gunwharf blocks beyond the shopping complex, a 600,000 gesture to say she still mattered. Lately, though, explained Winter, the relationship appeared to have come under some strain.

"How?" Suttle was still eyeing the menu.

"Italian bird, much younger than Mist. Bit of style, bit of class, doesn't need a bag over her head."

"Misty's a dog?"

"Far from it, body to die for even now, but the woman's got a real mouth on her, never knows when to shut up. Pompey girl…" Winter beckoned the waitress. "Comes with the territory."

The waitress took the order. Two cappuccinos. Suttle watched her making her way back towards the coffee machine.

"So where's the father?"

"Trudy's dad? Christ knows. His name's Gallagher but I can't remember ever meeting him. Mist's real name is Marlene, by the way, and there are blokes in the job still call her that. Drives her mad."