shape the city’s future. The irony that it lay a stone’s throw from the wastelands of Paulsgrove, hollowed out by poverty and crime, was largely ignored.
Faraday flicked through the file. By page three of the report, he’d lost count of the number of BMWs that had been burgled or vandalised in the big public car park, and it was no surprise to find the letter at the end. It had come from the desk of Nelly Tseng, Port Solent’s chief executive, and it was blunt to the point of terseness. She was sick and tired of waiting for the police to do something about the current influx of hooligans. They were making life a misery for her and her staff. More important, they were starting to drive customers away. Developments like hers depended on their reputation, and Portsmouth – in turn – depended on developments like Port Solent. Was it really asking too much of the police to expect a little action?
Faraday tossed the report on to the desk, only too aware of the opportunity he’d squandered at headquarters. A posting to one of the Major Inquiry Teams would have freed him from the daily grind of shoplifting and car crime. Guys on the MITs never got out of bed for less than serious rape, kidnapping or murder, and if he was honest with himself, he yearned for something more challenging than sorting out Nelly Tseng’s gripes. So why hadn’t he put up a better performance in front of the Assistant Chief Constable and his buddies? Why hadn’t he taken their questions seriously? Why hadn’t he even
tried
to please them? He thought about it for a moment or two and then shrugged. Maybe Harry Wayte was right. Maybe he was just too bloody-minded.
When Cathy Lamb passed the open door of the inspectors’ office, he called her in and showed her the file. He wanted her to put together a small task force. Bevan had promised enough budget for a couple of nights’ surveillance and some modest overtime. What he wanted was a rapid result and Faraday had promised him exactly that.
Cathy tried not to laugh. One of her missions in life was to bring men down to earth.
‘Have you seen the backlog?’ she said. ‘Domestic burglaries are going through the roof. There are families in Buckland going barmy thinking their kids are smoking heroin. We’re still clearing up the paedophile ring from April and every DC in the office is handling a CPU overspill. Most days it’s like a war zone in there. And you want a task force for a couple of scratched Beamers? On the strength we’ve got? Are you serious?’
‘Always, love. Just do it.’
Faraday turned away, refusing to take the file back, wondering which of his three in-trays to tackle first. Exchanges like these with Cathy always exhausted him, partly because she was so tenacious, but mainly because she was right. It was a fact of life that those with the fattest wallets and the loudest voices always got more than they deserved. Sadly, even Neville Bevan wasn’t immune to pressure from the likes of Nelly Tseng.
*
When Paul Winter hadn’t heard from Scott Spellar by four o’clock, he decided to drive to Anson Avenue and try and find him. The deal had been explicit. As soon as he’d seen Marty, he was to give Winter a ring. He wanted to know what Harrison had said, how he’d reacted, what plans he might have shared. Only then would Winter start serious negotiations about the promised two hundred pounds.
Crawling north through rush-hour traffic, Winter knew that he was up against the clock. The Drugs Squad was based at Havant nick and rumours were sweeping through their CID room that a bust was on for first light tomorrow morning. Winter had been on the phone to a mate only an hour ago. The canteen manager had been asked to prepare fifty-five doggy bags. Doggy bags contained the sausage rolls, apples, crisps and Kit-Kats that would fuel the guys on the sharp end, and an order that big could only mean that Harry Wayte’s boys were going to execute a number of warrants, four or five
Faraday flicked through the file. By page three of the report, he’d lost count of the number of BMWs that had been burgled or vandalised in the big public car park, and it was no surprise to find the letter at the end. It had come from the desk of Nelly Tseng, Port Solent’s chief executive, and it was blunt to the point of terseness. She was sick and tired of waiting for the police to do something about the current influx of hooligans. They were making life a misery for her and her staff. More important, they were starting to drive customers away. Developments like hers depended on their reputation, and Portsmouth – in turn – depended on developments like Port Solent. Was it really asking too much of the police to expect a little action?
Faraday tossed the report on to the desk, only too aware of the opportunity he’d squandered at headquarters. A posting to one of the Major Inquiry Teams would have freed him from the daily grind of shoplifting and car crime. Guys on the MITs never got out of bed for less than serious rape, kidnapping or murder, and if he was honest with himself, he yearned for something more challenging than sorting out Nelly Tseng’s gripes. So why hadn’t he put up a better performance in front of the Assistant Chief Constable and his buddies? Why hadn’t he taken their questions seriously? Why hadn’t he even
tried
to please them? He thought about it for a moment or two and then shrugged. Maybe Harry Wayte was right. Maybe he was just too bloody-minded.
When Cathy Lamb passed the open door of the inspectors’ office, he called her in and showed her the file. He wanted her to put together a small task force. Bevan had promised enough budget for a couple of nights’ surveillance and some modest overtime. What he wanted was a rapid result and Faraday had promised him exactly that.
Cathy tried not to laugh. One of her missions in life was to bring men down to earth.
‘Have you seen the backlog?’ she said. ‘Domestic burglaries are going through the roof. There are families in Buckland going barmy thinking their kids are smoking heroin. We’re still clearing up the paedophile ring from April and every DC in the office is handling a CPU overspill. Most days it’s like a war zone in there. And you want a task force for a couple of scratched Beamers? On the strength we’ve got? Are you serious?’
‘Always, love. Just do it.’
Faraday turned away, refusing to take the file back, wondering which of his three in-trays to tackle first. Exchanges like these with Cathy always exhausted him, partly because she was so tenacious, but mainly because she was right. It was a fact of life that those with the fattest wallets and the loudest voices always got more than they deserved. Sadly, even Neville Bevan wasn’t immune to pressure from the likes of Nelly Tseng.
*
When Paul Winter hadn’t heard from Scott Spellar by four o’clock, he decided to drive to Anson Avenue and try and find him. The deal had been explicit. As soon as he’d seen Marty, he was to give Winter a ring. He wanted to know what Harrison had said, how he’d reacted, what plans he might have shared. Only then would Winter start serious negotiations about the promised two hundred pounds.
Crawling north through rush-hour traffic, Winter knew that he was up against the clock. The Drugs Squad was based at Havant nick and rumours were sweeping through their CID room that a bust was on for first light tomorrow morning. Winter had been on the phone to a mate only an hour ago. The canteen manager had been asked to prepare fifty-five doggy bags. Doggy bags contained the sausage rolls, apples, crisps and Kit-Kats that would fuel the guys on the sharp end, and an order that big could only mean that Harry Wayte’s boys were going to execute a number of warrants, four or five
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