Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

"And you?"

"I came in about a fortnight ago. 900,000 contingent on a full survey." He smiled. "Mackenzie can't believe it."

"How does he know?"

"Gisela told him."

"And you've talked to Mackenzie?"

"Twice. Both times on the phone."

"He called you?"

"For sure, straight after he hassled Gisela for my number." Wallace rolled off the bed a moment, reaching for an ashtray, then lay back again. "He thought he'd squared the woman away, nice clear run.

Believe me, I'm the last guy he needs around. Nine hundred grand? You must be off your fucking head?

Wallace's take on Mackenzie's Pompey accent was faultless, and Faraday found himself grinning. The dim outlines of Nick Hayder's sting were at last beginning to emerge.

"You think he'll try and take care of you?"

"One way or another." He nodded. "Yeah."

"How?"

"No idea. The perfect end game has him bunging me a kilo or two of charlie but don't hold your breath."

"How would that work?"

"No one's explained the legend?"

"No." Once again, Faraday shook his head.

Every undercover officer has a legend, an assumed identity which must take him over. The best of them, Faraday knew, were indivisible from their new personalities. They lived, ate and slept what they'd become.

Graham Wallace was playing a twenty-nine-year-old property developer.

He'd made his fortune with a hefty commission on a 98 million shopping plaza in Oman and was back in the UK to enjoy the spoils. He had an office in Putney, a flat overlooking the river, and a Porsche Carrera for his expeditions out of town. A couple of investments had already caught his eye. One of them was a Tudor manor house in Gloucestershire he planned to turn into a health spa. Spit Bank Fort was another.

"As far as Mackenzie's concerned, I'm thinking five-star hotel — gourmet cooking, de luxe accommodation, helicopter platform on the roof for transfers from Heathrow, the works."

"That's huge money."

"You're right. But that's the point. I told him about the Cotswold place, too. It's got fifteen acres. They're asking three mil five."

"Why the detail?"

"Nick wanted him to check me out. The Cotswold place is part of the legend. The bloke that owns it is on side Nick warned him to expect a call from Mackenzie."

"And?"

"Mackenzie phoned him a couple of days ago. They had a long conversation and the bloke finally admitted he'd turned my offer down.

Said he'd made calls of his own and the Oman story didn't check out.

Said he thought the money was dodgy."

"Drugs money?"

"Has to be. He didn't say it in those terms but Mackenzie will draw his own conclusions."

"He thinks you're in the same game?"

"With luck." He nodded. "Yes."

Faraday was eyeing the last of the sandwiches. A legend within a legend. Neat.

"So Mackenzie really does need you off the plot?"

"Exactly. For one thing, I'm after his precious fort. And for another, I'm potential competition. The way I understand it, he's got this city pretty tied up. Me, he doesn't need."

"And you're thinking he'll compromise himself?"

"That was Nick's bid, sure. I just play along."

Faraday reached for the sandwich, impressed by the lengths to which Nick Hayder had gone. Set up a sting operation like this the false ID, the credit cards, the Porsche, the London office, the flat to go with it — and you were looking at a six-figure bill. Putting Mackenzie away and confiscating all his assets would dwarf that sum but there was absolutely no guarantee that this would ever happen. No wonder Nick hadn't been sleeping at night.

"Has this survey of yours happened yet?"

"No."

"But it's kosher? You've got it organised?"

"Oh yes. Structural engineer, architect the lot. Last time I talked to Mackenzie he told me I should forget it. Why piss away all that money, mate?" The Pompey accent again. "Why give yourself the grief?"

"And you?"

"I just laughed."

"So when's the survey due?"

"End of next week." Up on one elbow, Wallace nodded at the phone and flashed Faraday a smile. "Which is why our friend will now be wanting a meet."

It took three attempts on the mobile before DC Jimmy Suttle managed to get through to Paul Winter.

"Where are you?" The older man sounded half asleep.

"Hampshire Terrace."

"What's happening?"

"It's pouring with bloody rain." Suttle was doing his best to find shelter beneath a dripping lime tree across the road. Rush hour traffic was beginning to back up from the nearby roundabout, blocking his view of the terrace. "The lad went into an office. Number 68.

There's a solicitors' on the first two floors and something called Ambrym Productions at the top. Haven't seen him since."

"Ambrym belongs to a woman called Eadie Sykes." Winter smothered a yawn. "She makes videos."

"Should I know her?"

"Only if you're a mate of Faraday's."

"The DIOn Major Crimes?"

"Yeah. She's his shag. Big woman. Australian."

"And the lad?"

"Faraday's son You could try for an interview but don't hold your breath."

"Why not?"

"He's deaf and dumb. Only speaks sign."

Suttle was still trying to work out why a DI's son, Major Crimes for God's sake, should be keeping such bad company. Winter beat him to it.

"Kid's got a reputation for getting himself in the shit. You should have been around a couple of years back." "So what do I do now? Any suggestions?"

"Stay there. Cathy's sending a relief on this job. I'll pick you up."

"Like when?" "Like soon." Suttle heard Winter laughing. "Looks evil out there."

J-J had waited nearly half an hour for Eadie to finish her phone call.

She'd signed that one of the video's backers, the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership, were demanding an update on what was going on. It was taxpayers' money they were handing out and Ambrym were a month late sending in the quarterly progress report. Without the right ticks in the right boxes, there'd be problems releasing the next tranche of funding. And if that happened, according to the Ambrym spreadsheet she'd been obliged to share with the agency, her cash flow would turn to rat shit.

Eadie went through the agreed project milestones for the second time.

Yes, they'd completed the initial research. Yes, they'd touched base with each of the city's drug abuse organisations. Yes, they'd circulated full details of the project to a thousand and one other interested parties including every school in the city, every further education college, every youth group, every neighbourhood forum. And yes, she'd even managed to comply with the positive discrimination requirements by hiring someone with a registered disability.

"That's you," she signed, at last putting the phone down. "How did you get on?"

J-J had spent most of the last half-hour wondering just how much to tell her about Pennington Road. In the end, he decided there was no point even mentioning it. He'd come away empty-handed. With luck, he'd never see the guys with the dog ever again.

"Daniel's sick," he signed.

"What do you mean, sick?"

"Strung out. Hurting."

"Strung out enough not to do the interview?"

J-J hesitated. 90 worth of heroin was the price of the interview. He wasn't at all sure what would happen if they turned up without the accompanying wraps.

"I don't know. He looks really bad to me." He shrugged lamely, then mimed a state of imminent collapse.

Eadie watched him, scenting an opportunity.

"A real mess, you mean? The shakes? The sweats? Clucking?"

J-J nodded, an emphatic yes.

"You think he's got anything stashed away? Emergency supplies?"

A shake of the head.

"And this was when?" She glanced at her watch. "An hour ago?" With the greatest reluctance, a nod.