Angels Passing by Graham Hurley Read Free Book Online Page B

demanding more and more for less and less, an unsquareable circle that led to confrontations like these.
    Hartigan was on his feet behind his desk, supervising his management assistant as she cleared away the remnants of the last meeting. As Superintendent in charge of operations city-wide, he’d done well from recent upheavals in the organisation of Portsmouth’s policing and, judging by the number of coffee cups, he’d soon be needing a bigger conference table.
    ‘You’re a busy man, Joe.’ Hartigan waved Faraday into a chair. ‘This won’t take long.’
    He summarised his brief conversation with Cathy Lamb. Winter had produced untested intelligence with regard to the Brennan’s site. While Ray Brennan was undoubtedly a pillar of the community, one couldn’t be seen to confer special favours. In short, he needed more than a nod and a wink from the likes of Paul Winter to authorise a substantial overtime spend. With two months to go to the end of the financial year, he was already five per cent over budget and an operation like this – especially on a Friday night – would only make the deficit worse.
    Faraday, who’d anticipated every word of this little speech, enquired what alternatives Hartigan had in mind. As he understood it, Ray Brennan was already aware of the impending raid because DC Winter had told him. As a ratepayer, if nothing else, he’d expect a little protection. Might he not have a point?
    ‘Of course he would. Which is why I’m prepared to make a patrol car available, all night if necessary, two up.’
    ‘Visible?’
    ‘Of course. That’s why the guys are there. Even our criminal friends won’t be able to miss them. Assuming they turn up, of course.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Meaning that we don’t always get it right, Joe. Did I ever tell you about the missing gynaecologist who was allegedly buried under a block of flats? Found him in Jersey, didn’t we? After you wanted to dig up half of Gunwharf.’
    Faraday ignored the jibe. Last year’s hunt for the high-profile Misper had indeed led to Gunwharf, but at the time the intelligence and deductions had seemed solid enough. Winter again, and a definite result at the end of it all.
    ‘You agree, Joe? About Brennan’s?’ Hartigan was looking at his watch.
    ‘I see the logic, yes.’
    ‘But?’
    ‘But I just thought we might do better than that.’
    ‘How can we?’
    Faraday gazed at him a moment, then allowed himself a smile.
    ‘Arrests would be nice,’ he said mildly.
    A tiny muscle fluttered under Hartigan’s left eye. He leaned forward, his carefully buffed nails spread across the desk. His patience, like his time, was clearly limited.
    ‘Let me spell it out, Joe. Staking out Brennan’s will cost me a fortune. So far we’ve got nothing to go on but Winter’s word.’
    ‘Are you telling me he’s lying?’
    ‘Of course not. But can he put a name to this source? Have we provenanced it? Is he properly registered? Is there any other intelligence to back it up?’
    Faraday, for a moment, was robbed of an answer. Instead, he found himself gazing at a line of family photographs arranged in a neat semicircle on one of Hartigan’s filing cabinets: the bemedalled Superintendent and his wife at a Buckingham Palace garden party, his oldest son graduating from Cambridge, his daughter beside the font at her new baby’s christening. Hartigan lived in a world where appearances mattered a great deal. No wonder he’d fallen in love with New Labour.
    ‘Warning these guys off just moves the problem sideways,’ Faraday said at last.
    ‘I agree.
If
we’re taking this threat seriously.’
    ‘You really think we shouldn’t?’
    ‘I have my doubts.’ He nodded at the phone. ‘So do the CIMU.’
    The Crime and Incident Management Unit worked from a nearby suite of offices, twenty-seven clerks and police officers charged with keeping their ears to the ground. Like everyone else, they knew the way that Hartigan liked to provide himself