buddies but a measure of mutual respect made for a solid working relationship. Bevan always drew the straightest line between two points, and for that, Faraday was eternally grateful.
Bevan finally turned from his computer screen. Over his shoulder, Faraday scanned a line or two of rotund managerial prose before Bevan switched it off.
‘I’ve had ACCO on about your interview,’ Bevan said briskly. ‘I think “mystified” covers it nicely.’
‘Mystified about what?’
‘You. Why you even bothered turning up this morning. Waste of time was one of the phrases he used.’
‘Theirs or mine?’
Bevan threw back his head and barked with laughter. A couple of his teeth were missing, combat damage from some long-forgotten rugby match, and the fact that he’d never bothered with cosmetic dentistry spoke volumes about the man. Bevan measured himself and everyone else in terms of results. The rest, in his phrase, was conversation.
‘They’re pissed off,’ he went on in his Swansea lilt. ‘They don’t understand you and they feel a bit insulted and they’ve asked me to have a word. They think there might be a stress problem.’
‘Who with?’
‘You.’ He frowned, peering hard at Faraday with his muddy little eyes. ‘Is there a stress problem?’
Faraday wondered where to start. Should he tell him about J-J? About the lad’s fantasy affair with some French social worker? Should he tell him about the nights he lay in bed, listening to the lap-lap of the tide, trying to work out where the last two decades had gone? Should he describe the moments when he sometimes paused on the stairs, frozen by the memories behind one of Janna’s photographs? Should he share the bewilderment and disgust he increasingly felt, tidying up the wreckage of other people’s lives? Should he confess, just occasionally, to an anger so intense and so deeply rooted that he felt capable of murder himself?
‘No,’ he said softly, ‘there isn’t a stress problem.’
‘Good,’ Bevan nodded. ‘That’s what I told them. I said you were a difficult bastard and tricky to handle and much better off where you were. That kind of stuff really throws them. Dishonesty they can cope with, and incompetence, too, but blokes like you leave them in the dark. They think it’s lack of ambition and that’s something they most definitely don’t understand. You know the eleventh commandment?
Better
thyself. Aggressively, boyo. And at all times.’
He barked with laughter again, shaking his head. Like Faraday, he viewed headquarters with a certain derision. They were too remote from the real business of policing. Like bosses everywhere, the uniformed hierarchy had begun to believe all the New Labour clap-trap about community partnerships and transparency and best value. The latter, according to Bevan, was a smokescreen for wholesale cuts in budget. This year alone, he was supposed to find a two per cent budget reduction through a mysterious mechanism headquarters termed ‘efficiency savings’. Two per cent of Bevan’s budget would keep five beat men on the streets for a whole year.
Now he produced a red file from a drawer and slid it across the desk towards Faraday. The heart-to-heart was obviously over.
‘I’ve got the Port Solent lot on my back again,’ he said. ‘Someone’s having a go at all those fancy motors and they don’t think we’re doing enough to stop them. And you know what? I think they’re probably right.’
Faraday returned to his office with the file. The marina development was tucked into the northern corner of Portsmouth Harbour. Apartment blocks and waterside executive houses ringed a yacht basin with berths for over a hundred boats, while pubs, restaurants and a multiplex cinema drew in crowds every night from the city. Port Solent was where you went for tapas and a chilled bottle of Becks, for deck shoes and the latest chinos, and, according to some, it offered exactly the kind of leisure experience that would
Bevan finally turned from his computer screen. Over his shoulder, Faraday scanned a line or two of rotund managerial prose before Bevan switched it off.
‘I’ve had ACCO on about your interview,’ Bevan said briskly. ‘I think “mystified” covers it nicely.’
‘Mystified about what?’
‘You. Why you even bothered turning up this morning. Waste of time was one of the phrases he used.’
‘Theirs or mine?’
Bevan threw back his head and barked with laughter. A couple of his teeth were missing, combat damage from some long-forgotten rugby match, and the fact that he’d never bothered with cosmetic dentistry spoke volumes about the man. Bevan measured himself and everyone else in terms of results. The rest, in his phrase, was conversation.
‘They’re pissed off,’ he went on in his Swansea lilt. ‘They don’t understand you and they feel a bit insulted and they’ve asked me to have a word. They think there might be a stress problem.’
‘Who with?’
‘You.’ He frowned, peering hard at Faraday with his muddy little eyes. ‘Is there a stress problem?’
Faraday wondered where to start. Should he tell him about J-J? About the lad’s fantasy affair with some French social worker? Should he tell him about the nights he lay in bed, listening to the lap-lap of the tide, trying to work out where the last two decades had gone? Should he describe the moments when he sometimes paused on the stairs, frozen by the memories behind one of Janna’s photographs? Should he share the bewilderment and disgust he increasingly felt, tidying up the wreckage of other people’s lives? Should he confess, just occasionally, to an anger so intense and so deeply rooted that he felt capable of murder himself?
‘No,’ he said softly, ‘there isn’t a stress problem.’
‘Good,’ Bevan nodded. ‘That’s what I told them. I said you were a difficult bastard and tricky to handle and much better off where you were. That kind of stuff really throws them. Dishonesty they can cope with, and incompetence, too, but blokes like you leave them in the dark. They think it’s lack of ambition and that’s something they most definitely don’t understand. You know the eleventh commandment?
Better
thyself. Aggressively, boyo. And at all times.’
He barked with laughter again, shaking his head. Like Faraday, he viewed headquarters with a certain derision. They were too remote from the real business of policing. Like bosses everywhere, the uniformed hierarchy had begun to believe all the New Labour clap-trap about community partnerships and transparency and best value. The latter, according to Bevan, was a smokescreen for wholesale cuts in budget. This year alone, he was supposed to find a two per cent budget reduction through a mysterious mechanism headquarters termed ‘efficiency savings’. Two per cent of Bevan’s budget would keep five beat men on the streets for a whole year.
Now he produced a red file from a drawer and slid it across the desk towards Faraday. The heart-to-heart was obviously over.
‘I’ve got the Port Solent lot on my back again,’ he said. ‘Someone’s having a go at all those fancy motors and they don’t think we’re doing enough to stop them. And you know what? I think they’re probably right.’
Faraday returned to his office with the file. The marina development was tucked into the northern corner of Portsmouth Harbour. Apartment blocks and waterside executive houses ringed a yacht basin with berths for over a hundred boats, while pubs, restaurants and a multiplex cinema drew in crowds every night from the city. Port Solent was where you went for tapas and a chilled bottle of Becks, for deck shoes and the latest chinos, and, according to some, it offered exactly the kind of leisure experience that would
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