Turnstone by Graham Hurley Page A

mates.’

Seven
    All the way to Port Solent, next morning, Faraday was trying to forget that J-J was due back on the evening ferry but even Dawn Ellis, who regarded her boss as seriously remote, noticed how fretful and preoccupied he seemed.
    ‘Is anything the matter, sir?’ she inquired, as they turned into the big car park at the marina complex.
    ‘Nothing, love.’ He gestured at the line of bars and restaurants that fronted on to The Boardwalk, keen to change the subject. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’
    Walking across the car park, Faraday mused about the brutality of the social contrasts. Millions of pounds’ worth of yachts tied up beside one of the UK’s most deprived council estates. Knick-knack shops selling pot-pourri at six pounds a throw when kids half a mile away couldn’t afford new shoes.
    Dawn let him get it off his chest, then nodded across at the big UCI cinema complex.
    ‘Ever tried it, sir?’
    Faraday gazed at her, wrong-footed.
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘I haven’t.’
    ‘Then maybe you should.’ Dawn risked a smile. ‘They sell great popcorn and the sound system’s brilliant.’
    Nelly Tseng was a slight, intense, exquisitely dressed Hong Kong Chinese in her mid-forties with a big desk, lots of gold jewellery, and perfect English dusted with just the trace of an American accent. Her eyes were as cold as her handshake and she had absolutely no time for small talk. Faraday had scarcely sat down before she was telling him how successful Port Solent had become. The place was an absolute smash. The bars and restaurants were packed every night and she had a queue of heavyweight merchandisers itching to get into the retail outlets. The last thing she needed now was pondlife.
    ‘Pondlife?’ Faraday inquired mildly.
    ‘Kids from across the tracks. As far as food and beverage is concerned, we’re covered. They can’t afford the prices, not in the bars, and certainly not in the restaurants. But they still come. God knows why, but they do. Have you checked with that superintendent of yours?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Then you’ll know about the cars. My security guys keep a log. Here.’
    Faraday took the proffered sheet of paper. Talking to Nelly Tseng was like trying to survive in a gale-force wind. Unless you gave a little, you were doomed.
    ‘Terrible.’ Faraday knew the list of vandalised cars by heart. ‘Must be a real pain.’
    ‘Too right. And you see that last one? The top-of-the-range Mercedes? Guy over from Monaco, big investor, looking to fund the next major expansion. And you know what happens to his car? He leaves it outside the multiplex for an hour and when he comes back it’s scored from end to end.’
    ‘I expect it was hired, wasn’t it?’
    ‘That’s hardly the point, Mr Faraday. He’s thinking clientele. He’s thinking Joe Public. A family spending eighty pounds in a restaurant or the evening in the cinema doesn’t expect to find their car trashed.’ She tapped a perfect nail on the desk. ‘So my Mr Mercedes wants to know why. And so do I.’
    ‘You’ve got CCTV?’
    ‘Of course we have. You’ll have seen the cameras.’
    ‘Then maybe you should upgrade the system.’
    ‘We’re looking at it, Mr Faraday, but you’re talking serious money. My commercial tenants already pay a fortune in rates. So do the residents. So do we. To put it crudely, Inspector, that buys them you.’
    Faraday stole a glance at Dawn Ellis. She looked spellbound.
    ‘I’ll need more than this.’ Faraday gestured at the list of cars. ‘I’ll need times, locations. We look for patterns in cases like this. DC Ellis will be your point of contact.’
    Dawn Ellis mustered a smile. Nelly Tseng didn’t take her eyes off Faraday. She wanted the organ grinder, not the monkey.
    ‘Let’s understand each other, Inspector. We talk the language of results here. That’s why we’re so successful. That’s why we’re setting the tone. Your city needs a future, Mr Faraday, and we’re happy to oblige.