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  From Hantspol’s point of view, of course, it made perfect sense, the gentlest of landings after a bumpy ride. But for someone with blood in their veins, someone with an ounce of self-respect, someone who thought that coppering had some faint connection with justice rather than collective hand-holding, the thought of becoming a Theme Champions’ Coordinator would have been the kiss of death.

  The latter phrase drew a shake of the head from Suttle. He returned the letter to the window sill. A knock at the front door took him down the hall. There were two figures waiting to come in. He didn’t recognise the D/S, but the duty D/I had decided to come too. Nick Hayder was probably the closest Faraday had to a friend in the job, a like-minded forty-something who rarely let sentiment get in the way of the facts. On this occasion, though, he looked shocked.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Suttle explained. Hayder nodded, made no comment, accompanied the D/S upstairs. Then came another knock on the door. Hayder, it seemed, had already contacted Scenes of Crime. There were two of them, a Crime Scene Investigator and the Imaging Specialist who’d tote his cameras up to the bedroom and put the lot on DVD. They both knew Faraday well. They took an appraising glance around the big living room and then followed Suttle up towards the bedroom.

  Suttle had been through this routine on countless occasions. Normally, whether they were dead or alive, you were dealing with strangers. You stepped into the wreckage of their lives and did what you had to do. You were respectful and businesslike, but behind closed doors you often lightened proceedings with a muttered quip or two as the occasion suggested. Not this time. The CSI, a guy in his forties who’d had a great deal of time for Faraday, took one look at the body and left the image specialist to get on with it. There were windows to dust for prints, items to seize for analysis, the PC and Faraday’s mobile to bag for the techies at Netley. Soon, the doctor would arrive.

  On the landing Hayder was conferring with his D/S. Back downstairs in the living room, Suttle waited for them to finish. He’d found an old address book in a drawer and was leafing through it, amazed at how few friends or family Faraday appeared to have had. He was transcribing J-J’s contact details when the CSI returned from the bedroom. He needed to know how far D/I Hayder wanted to take this thing. He’d boshed the bedroom and the bathroom and checked out the other windows upstairs. No signs of forced entry. Nothing remotely suspicious. Suttle shrugged. This was Hayder’s decision, not his. As far as he was concerned, the story told itself. Faraday had slipped his moorings. Maybe death had been a kindness. Maybe the voice in the letter to J-J had it right. Maybe that’s exactly the way he’d wanted it.

  The CSI, drawn and pale, agreed. He said he’d check around downstairs just in case and then use the last of the daylight to have a nose outside. But, unless D/I Hayder had views to the contrary, he saw little point in turning this thing into a major production.

  Suttle nodded. The two men looked at each other. In all probability Faraday had jacked it in. There was nothing left to say.

  The doctor arrived within the hour. Suttle explained exactly how he’d found the body. Then he conferred briefly with Hayder and the D/S, and left them to it. Walking to his car, he suddenly realised how late it was. His wife, Lizzie, had long been used to the craziness of CID hours, but since the baby had arrived she’d been banged up at home on maternity leave, trying to coax some order into their domestic lives. Grace was a delight but a handful. A sight of her dad from time to time would be a real help.

  The moment Lizzie answered the phone, Suttle knew things weren’t going well. He could hear his infant daughter in the background. If she wasn’t asleep by now they were probably in for another sleepless night.

  Lizzie wanted to know where he was. He could hear the anger in her voice. Lately, more and more, married life was like living with a stranger.

  ‘I’m at Faraday’s place,’ he said.

  ‘You stopped for a drink? Only Gill’s been on. She still wants to know where she stands. I told her I had no idea. This time of night, you’re probably both pissed. Am I right?’

  Suttle was looking out at the gathering darkness on the harbour. He felt suddenly very old.

  ‘He’s dead, love,’ he said. And rang off.

  Chapter two

  PORTSMOUTH: THURSDAY, 13 AUGUST 2009

  The news got to Paul Winter late that night. Suttle, he knew at once, was drunk.

  ‘Son?’ he said. ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘He’s dead. Gone. He topped himself. He did it.’

  ‘But who, son. Who?’

  ‘Faraday.’

  There was a long silence. Winter didn’t know what to say. The television was off. He was in his dressing gown. Intercepted on his way to bed, he could only stare out at the blackness of Portsmouth Harbour. Faraday? Dead?

  ‘For fuck’s sake …’ he murmured.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How? When?’

  Suttle did his best to explain. He was slurring. Badly.

  ‘Where are you, son?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘You want me to come round?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want to come here? Take a cab?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  There was another silence before the line went dead. Then a shiver of wind blew in from the harbour, stirring the yachts moored beside the Gunwharf pontoon. Winter could hear the halyards rattling against the masts. He stepped closer to the window, the phone still in his hand, trying to understand what had just happened.

  The last time he’d seen Joe Faraday was a couple of months ago. Jimmy and Lizzie had thrown a party to celebrate the arrival of their daughter, Grace. Winter, as godfather, had naturally been there, and he and Faraday had tucked themselves in a corner and sunk a couple of lagers. His ex-boss had seemed a bit vague, sure, and social chit-chat was something Faraday never found especially easy, but they’d talked about the new baby, about when Suttle might start thinking about the D/I promotion exams, and they’d shared one or two war stories from the old days on Major Crime. As far as the Job was concerned, Faraday seemed to have turned his back on all those years of nailing the bad guys, and when Winter had pressed him for some kind of explanation he’d simply shrugged and reached for another tinny. It felt like someone else’s life, he’d murmured. It had come and it had gone, much like everything else he’d ever touched, and he’d never been one for nostalgia.

  At the time Winter had put this down to the Stella. Shortly afterwards their conversation had been interrupted by a mate of Lizzie’s, a looker with scarlet nails and a big leather belt. Winter couldn’t remember her name, but she’d introduced herself with a cheesy little flourish before towing Faraday across to the brimming display of canapés, and somewhat later Winter had spotted them leaving together. Good on you, he’d thought at the time. Enjoy.

  Now, though, he began to wonder. As a D/C on division, he’d spent a couple of years working under Faraday, and later they’d been thrown together on a couple of Major Crime inquiries. Winter had always recognised his D/I as a fellow loner, and when he’d left the Job and journeyed to the Dark Side, Faraday had been one of his few ex-colleagues to spare him the time of day. For that Winter had always been grateful. The man had more in his life than canteen gossip. He’d taken the trouble to try and figure out why someone as difficult and gifted as Winter would end up working for the city’s top criminal face, and when circumstances had occasionally brought them together, he’d never rushed to judgement. On the contrary, he seemed to understand the path that Winter had chosen. That, of course, was why Faraday had been a decent cop. He was patient. He listened. He watched. He resisted the obvious conclusions. He let events play out, sharpened his pencil, reviewed the evidence, set a trap or two, and then joined the dots. Winter had always admired this MO because it so closely resembled his own. But then he, Paul Winter, was a survivor. Whereas Faraday, all too clearly, was anything but.

  Tr
ue? Winter eyed his reflection in the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. In his early fifties, he was Faraday’s age, give or take. He was overweight by at least a couple of stone. He drank too much, ate too much and took full advantage of any passing opportunity. He was losing his hair, and physical challenge of pretty much any description was definitely becoming an issue. But he had resilience, and resilience mattered, and what he also had was self-belief. There were few decisions he’d taken in his life that he’d ever regretted, and if he’d finally arrived at a parting of the ways with Bazza then that, too, could be sorted. Because it had to be faced. Because it had to be done. Because otherwise, for all his matey confidence, he knew he’d end up like Faraday.

  He thought about a drink, a private farewell toast to mark the man’s passing, then shook his head. The light was still on in the bedroom, but Misty appeared to be asleep. Recently she’d taken to wearing a black silk camisole that cost a fortune and properly belonged on someone a bit thinner. She’d also installed her favourite stuffed animal, a pink leopard called Charlie with one eye missing and badly repaired damage around the hindquarters where Bazza had once attacked it with a broken bottle.

  The beast stood knee-high and had occupied a corner of the bedroom for a couple of weeks now, an affront to Winter’s sense of independence. He’d loathed it from the moment it had invaded his space, and the more he saw of it the more he knew it had to go. It was chavvy. It was infantile. It clashed with his curtains and filled him with dread in case Misty turned up with the rest of the zoo he knew she kept at home. For years, at considerable risk, he’d been knobbing Bazza’s mistress at every opportunity. Now, for reasons he still didn’t fully understand, he and Mist appeared to have become an item.

  Misty stirred. She wanted to know who’d been on the phone.

  ‘Jimmy Suttle.’

  ‘What did he want?’ She was struggling to look at the bedside clock.

  ‘It was just a personal thing. Mutual friend.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She was up on one elbow now. ‘And?’

  ‘Dunno, really. The boy was pissed as a rat.’

  Winter smothered a yawn, unsure why he was sparing her the details. Misty had met Faraday on a couple of occasions and thought him a cut above the usual Filth.

  ‘So are you coming to bed, or what?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Winter didn’t move. Earlier Misty had been worrying about her place over on Hayling Island. Bazza had acquired it years ago when his business empire was going from strength to strength. A whisker under half a million had bought a waterside property with views across Langstone Harbour, the perfect love nest for the aspiring entrepreneur. Misty had added a pool with underwater disco lights and found ample time for Winter when Mackenzie wasn’t around. Bazza still paid her a visit from time to time, but Misty sensed his heart wasn’t in it. Winter wanted to know more.

  ‘I’m yesterday’s shag,’ she said. ‘We do it for old times’ sake.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I think he wants the house back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To sell it.’

  ‘Sell it?’

  This was news to Winter. He knew exactly how tight things were in every corner of the business because that was his job, but he’d somehow overlooked the place on Hayling Island. That, in a curious way, was family. And Bazza had always been careful to keep family assets ring-fenced from the tax man and the recent credit crunch.

  ‘Did he buy it outright?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’

  ‘What was the deal, then?’

  ‘I think he raised a mortgage on three quarters of it. The rest he must own.’

  Winter perched himself on the edge of the bed, doing the sums in his head. In today’s market the house was probably worth around 650K. After expenses, that would still give Bazza at least 250K in equity. With the rest of his property empire in free fall, and the other businesses stretched to breaking point, there were a million pressing calls on a sum like this, but Winter’s heart sank when he realised why Mackenzie might be serious about Hayling Island.

  ‘Why all this? Why would he need the money?’ he asked.

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘Kinder.’

  ‘Of course. The guy’s got Baz by the nuts. He can’t get too much of all this politics shit. Honestly, my love, it’s pitiful to watch.’

  Winter could only agree. He’d seen it for himself. Leo Kinder had become a regular fixture at Mackenzie’s Craneswater house. He was savvy, plausible and extremely well connected. Once, until they’d thrown him out, he’d been a full-time agent with the Tories, running parliamentary candidates up and down the country. Now, as a freelance political consultant, he was telling Mackenzie that – come the election – one of the two Portsmouth constituencies was his for the taking.

  ‘Can’t resist it, can he?’

  ‘Never. You know what he told me last time we shagged?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He told me Kinder was a genius. And he told me that when he gets in he’s going to give the guy the freedom of the city.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘On my oath.’

  ‘And he believes it?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  In certain moods, as Winter knew only too well, Bazza Mackenzie could be delusional. All he needed was a whiff of the big time, a glimpse of the summit, and he’d be off and running. All the usual obstacles would simply vanish. He’d charm and bully and buy his way to the top, exactly the same MO that had turned seventeen million quid’s worth of toot into a sizeable business empire. For a while running this empire had been fun. He’d earned respect, won new friends, banked another fortune in legitimate profits, but then the recession had come along, and he suddenly needed something else to keep his attention.

  With the wolves at the door, the world of balance sheets and employment contracts and meetings with lawyers was suddenly a pain in the arse. There had to be another challenge, something sexier, and in the shape of Leo Kinder he’d found it. First the possibility of standing for the post of elected mayor. Then, when the required legislation never happened, the chance of becoming an MP. This little conjuring trick was a tribute to the spell that a guy like Kinder could cast. Nowadays, from where Bazza was sitting, the city had seen enough of the same old faces. The people, the voters, had been shafted by the mainstream parties. Pompey, his Pompey, deserved better.

  ‘So what’s it costing?’ Winter inquired. He had asked Bazza exactly the same question and got no answer.

  ‘He says fifty grand.’

  ‘Double it.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Yeah. And probably double it again. You know the man, Mist. He doesn’t do losing. If Kinder puts a price on success, he’ll take no chances.’

  ‘Two hundred grand?’ Misty was doing the arithmetic. ‘That’s what he’d pocket from my house.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was a long silence. Charlie the pink leopard had become a brooding presence in the room. Winter risked a glance, shut his eyes, shook his head. Then he felt the stir of bedsprings beneath him and a gentle tug on his arm as Misty tried to peel off his dressing gown. Moments later he was flat on his back while Misty busied herself with the knot on his pyjama bottoms. He knew exactly what was coming next. And he dreaded it.

  Naked below the waist, he succumbed to her dancing fingers for a moment or two then levered himself half-upright. Supported on his elbows, he watched her bobbing head.

  ‘So what will you do?’ he managed at last.

  Her head slowed. Her fingers closed around him and her face appeared. Winter recognised the smile she saved for special occasions.

  ‘I’ll move in here for real.’ She nodded at the bedroom and gave him a little squeeze. ‘You fancy that?’

  Chapter three

  PORTSMOUTH: FRIDAY, 14 AUGUST 2009

  Suttle was at Det Supt Parsons’ office door at nine o’clock. For the first time in y
ears a hangover had bent him over the toilet bowl. Lizzie, after a night of trying to cope with their daughter, had ignored him. Since he’d showered, dressed and risked a slice of cold toast, they hadn’t exchanged a word.

  Parsons wanted to know about the post-mortem. The thought of Faraday on the pathologist’s table made Suttle’s stomach heave.

  ‘Half nine, boss. Up at the QA.’ The Queen Alexandra Hospital was Portsmouth’s newest and biggest, a sprawling complex on the fold of chalk overlooking the city.

  ‘I want you there, Jimmy. I know it’s tough but it has to be done.’

  Suttle stared at her. For the first time he realised the role she’d assigned him over the coming days. Because Faraday’s death wasn’t being treated as suspicious, there’d be no need for a police presence at the post-mortem. But Parsons, as ever, wanted no surprises.

  ‘Are you serious, boss?’

  ‘Of course. We need to keep on top of this thing. You knew him. You worked with him. Intel’s your speciality. We need a motive, some proof of intent. You get my drift?’

  The inquiry was already tagged Operation Castor. Any kind of oversight role in the unexplained death of his ex-boss was the last thing Suttle needed. He briefly contemplated appealing to Parsons’ better nature but knew it would be a waste of time. She wanted him to keep an eye on Faraday’s immediate family too, offering them whatever support they needed.

  ‘There isn’t any, boss, as far as I can suss.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘Only his son, J-J.’

  ‘Does he know yet?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He might.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘London. Chiswick.’

  ‘Then go up there and hold his hand, eh? After the PM.’

  ‘Fine, boss.’ Suttle glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better make a move.’

  Winter was summoned to breakfast at Sandown Road. Mackenzie’s house was a big red-brick Edwardian villa with huge windows and an upstairs glimpse of the sea beyond the tennis courts at the end of the road. Bazza and his wife Marie had been living here for a while now, his most visible down payment on a new life among Southsea’s moneyed professionals. Regular dinner parties and summer barbecues had fattened his address book, and – according to Marie – he’d recently treated himself to golf lessons at a pricey resort complex on the mainland.