Free One Under by Graham Hurley

sure what he really thinks of Pompey. The times we got to have a real chat I got the impression he wasn’t that struck, but I may have been wrong.’
    ‘You think he might have moved away completely?’
    ‘Might have done, though I’m sure he would have mentioned it.’
    ‘Is he married at all? Girlfriend? Anything like that?’
    ‘Not that I know of. It’s not that he wasn’t friendly - don’t get me wrong - but some blokes are just a bit shy, you know what I mean? Haven’t got a lot to say.’
    ‘Sure.’ Winter’s was picturing the bank statements. ‘What about football?’
    ‘Football? Givens? ’ Tarrant began to laugh. ‘I think not, Mr W. That’s one of the things that pisses him off about the town. He once told me he’d got away from home because everyone was soccer-mad. Then he finds himself down here. Blue Army. Pompey till I die. He hates all that. Thinks they’re all hooligans. Can’t begin to understand what all the fuss is about.’
    ‘Not into season tickets, then?’
    ‘Shit, no. Why do you ask?’
    Winter didn’t answer. Instead, he wanted to know whether Givens had any enemies.
    Tarrant looked blank.
    ‘ Enemies? What would that be about?’ He gazed at Winter a moment longer, then the penny appeared to drop. ‘You think … ?’
    Winter shrugged.
    ‘I dunno. That’s what it looks like. On the other hand, it might be down to something else. Maybe he’s had a stroke, lost his memory. Maybe you’re right. Maybe Pompey’s got to him. Maybe he’s gone home, back up north.’ Winter nodded. ‘Yeah, maybe that’s it.’
    Tarrant’s eyes had strayed to the big screen on the far wall. A team in blue were running out of a tunnel. The roar of the crowd found an echo in the handful of drinkers who’d turned to watch.
    ‘Pompey.’ Tarrant was grinning. ‘The Saints game at Fratton Park back in April. Four-one and it could have been a hatful. If this is like my local they’ll be playing the DVD most nights. That’s another thing that gets Alan going, all the bollocks about Scummers. He had a go at me once about it. We were having a brew in the office and I had a dig at the Scummers, the way you do, and he just couldn’t understand it. So what’s so bad about living in Southampton? he said. Southampton? Scummerdom? Can you believe that? A grown man? In this town? I had to be stern with the fella, told him to watch his mouth.’ He smiled at the memory, still looking up at the screen. ‘Didn’t work, though, did it? Not according to you, Mr Winter … ’
     
    In the end, Faraday and Willard were too late for the pub, so Willard elected for a curry instead. The Midnight Tandoori lay towards the bottom of the town. As Willard had anticipated, it was virtually empty.
    Willard edged his bulk behind the table and reached for the menu. Promotion, Faraday had already decided, sat rather well on the new Head of CID. The three-piece suit looked as expensive as ever and there was something in his manner that spoke of a deep sense of satisfaction.
    On Major Crimes Willard had set a crippling pace, refusing to accept second best from anyone on the team, fighting battle after battle with his masters at HQ. A DCI who knew him well had a theory that Willard couldn’t function properly without someone to batter, and he was fearless when it came to choice of target. There were placemen way up the pecking order for whom the then-Detective Superintendent had nothing but contempt, and the fact that they outranked him simply added to his furious sense of injustice. There had been times in his office, back at Kingston Crescent, when Faraday had felt tempted to leave the room rather than endure another second of Willard’s end of the phone call. ‘Totally unacceptable’ had been one favourite phrase. ‘Pillock’ another.
    Now though, from the giddy heights of Detective Chief Superintendent, Willard appeared to have mellowed. He was the top detective in the force. What he said mattered. No one