Free Heaven's Light by Graham Hurley

premier cycling event. Starting and ending on the bloody Common.
    ‘Brilliant,’ he conceded. ‘Fucking ace.’
    Carthew blinked at Charlie’s comment, then recovered himself. ‘You’ll be there?’
    ‘No question.’
    Carthew beamed. One of the big team sponsors had extended an invitation for his kids to meet one or two of their stars. Maybe Charlie’s would like to come too. Charlie looked regretful, apologizing for his lack of children, then grinned at Carthew, trying to soften the ripple of laughteraround the table. He’d no desire to make an enemy of this little man but he was still having a problem bridging the gap between the Pompey of his childhood and the glitzy, dynamic fairy-tale he might soon have to sell.
    ‘Advertising works on exclusivity,’ he said carefully. ‘So tell me again … What’s so special about this place?’
    ‘France,’ Carthew said promptly. ‘The continent. Europe. That’s the dimension that really matters. Three hundred and forty-two million punters on our doorstep. Biggest free-trade area in the world. Believe me, we look south from this city not north. It’s Le Havre, Caen, Bilbao. Not bloody Guildford. You know how successful we’ve been with the ferryport? Three million throughput a year. Second busiest in the UK Major earner for the city. And still growth to come.’ He nodded. ‘Flagship Portsmouth. Gateway city. City for the millennium. Yessir …’
    Charlie was scribbling another note to himself. Maybe Carthew had a point. Maybe the continental dimension was the key. He glanced up. Carthew was back on the peace dividend, using a flip-chart on an easel, pointing out areas of the city soon to be released from Ministry of Defence ownership. There were hundreds of acres involved. For commerce and manufacturing it was a unique opportunity.
    He reached for a pile of brochures on a low table beside his chair, tossing a couple across to Charlie. One was a pitch for a redevelopment on reclaimed land at North Harbour. The other, thicker and glossier, promoted the attractions of a marina complex. Charlie flicked through the pages of carefully framed photos. Expensive yachts nuzzled wooden pontoons. Handsome couples sipped aperitifs at open-air restaurants. Businessmen conferred on mobile phones against a background of eternal summer.
    Charlie gestured loosely at the brochure. ‘Where’s this?’
    ‘Port Solent.’ Carthew’s finger found a corner of the harbour on the flip-chart. ‘It’s very eighties, of course, but it shows you what can be done. Decent design. High build quality. Bit of imagination. Bit of style. Take a look at Port Solent and you’ll see the shape of things to come. Believe me, there’s nothing that investment and a bit of effort can’t achieve. Absolutely nothing.’
    Charlie peered at the map. Port Solent lay at the north of the harbour, at the foot of Portsdown Hill. Across the motorway was one of the roughest council estates in western Europe, a snarl on the face of a very different Pompey. Charlie thought of pushing the contrast, seeing what creative sparks might fly, then decided against it. Elements of this challenge were beginning to interest him.
    ‘You’re selling the past,’ he said, ‘and you’re selling the future. You’re selling quality of life and quality of expectation. I get a feeling of growth, of opportunity. Am I right so far?’
    ‘Absolutely.’ Carthew was beaming again. ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘But that puts you in the same frame as every other UK city. So I go back to my question. What makes Pompey Pompey?’
    Carthew frowned, reaching for his coffee, giving the question some thought. Across the table, silhouetted against the window, someone stirred. He was an older man, taller than Carthew, his long body folded comfortably into the chrome-framed chair. He was wearing a well-cut suit, and when he turned his head to gesture at the Guildhall Square outside, the sunlight gleamed on his thick pebble glasses.
    ‘Pompey