Cut to Black faw-5

by Graham Hurley

  "He's one of our Scousers," Cathy said wearily. "And Secretan's drawn the obvious conclusion. What didn't help was a bloody MP on the station."

  "At that time in the morning?"

  "He was going to a conference in Birmingham. Anti-Social Behaviour.

  And if you think that's funny…"

  Secretan, she said, was chewing the furniture. The turf war had now gone very public indeed and the last thing he needed was yet more grief from headquarters. He wanted a full report on his desk by noon, and an action plan within twenty-four hours.

  "Action plan?"

  "We have to seal this off, nip it in the bud. So far the MP's agreed not to talk to the press but there were other punters there and they undoubtedly will. Secretan's writing the headlines already."

  "How are we so sure about turf wars? They leave a note? Name and address?"

  "Good as." Cathy summoned a weak smile. "Someone had taken the trouble to adjust the lad's watch, then stamp on it. Any guesses?"

  Jimmy Suttle stirred.

  '6.57?"

  "Exactly."

  Winter beamed his approval. The boy was learning fast. He turned back to Cathy Lamb as she listed the immediate actions. The Scouser had so far refused to offer a statement. A search of his clothing had revealed a set of car keys, a single wrap of heroin, and a scribbled list of mobile numbers. A couple of squad DCs up in A 8c E were waiting to take a statement but a fractured jaw and a mouthful of broken teeth didn't help and it wasn't looking hopeful. As far as witnesses were concerned, a postman had rung in with details on a van.

  He'd been en route to the start of his shift in the nearby sorting centre and had noticed the van backed into the side entrance to the station. The rear doors were open and there was some kind of fracas going on. The van looked like a Transit old, maybe a builder's wagon.

  "There's CCTV on the concourse." Cathy was looking at Winter. "And another one outside across the road. According to the postie we're looking at half two in the morning. OK?"

  Winter nodded. The CCTV control room in the bowels of the Civic Centre was his least favourite destination but already he'd put money on a rapid result. Secretan was right. Odds on, these were the beginnings of a serious turf war. This was about trespass, about the bunch of young lunatics who'd descended on the city and torn up the rules. If you were local and your patience had run out, then there ways of sending a message. Giving one of the Scousers a hiding and dumping him at the railway station didn't leave much room for ambiguity. Fuck off or else.

  Winter was still wondering about the Transit when Suttle caught his eye.

  "Bazza?"

  "Has to be." Winter returned to Cathy Lamb. "Anything else, boss?"

  Already late for a scheduled conference at the Tumbril HQ on Whale Island, Faraday found himself caught in rush-hour traffic. Inching towards his fourth set of red lights, he turned over the morning's events. The row with Eadie had shaken him more than he cared to admit, not simply because he hated letting the job get between them but because in some important respects he suspected she might be right.

  Her junkie interview had been a revelation. As a divisional DI, he bumped into the drug problem every day of his working life, largely because junkies needed to burgle and shoplift to feed their habit. The same names cropped up time and time again on the charge sheets, cutting an ever-deeper groove in the monthly volume crime stats, and in clear-up terms it helped a great deal to know where to look for nicked laptops and help-yourself perfume. But watching the torment of this sweating, moon-faced junkie, with his quietly desperate conviction that heroin was doing him some kind of favour, was the first time that Faraday had truly understood the power of the drug. Getting seriously fond of smack, as Eadie had pointed out, was opting for a form of life imprisonment. No charge, no trial, no jury, no chance of appeal. Just the daily four-hour trek between fixes, with the strongest possible motivation for getting hold of the next wrap.

  In this sense, Eadie's video rushes had spoken for themselves, perfectly capturing the choke hold that was heroin addiction.

  Strung-out and visibly distressed, Daniel had done his best to rationalise what smack had done to him, to defend the drug the way you might protect a best friend, but even at his most articulate you couldn't avoid the physical realities: the hands crabbing up and down the arms of the chair, the constant scratching, the haunted desperation in his eyes. Add to this the sequence that followed, and Eadie might have a point. Put these images in the right order, let them speak for themselves, and no one in his right mind would go anywhere near the stuff. That, at least, was the theory.

  This morning, they'd argued the issue to a standstill. From Faraday's point of view, Eadie had been reckless. If it ever got to court a good lawyer might be able to limit the damage, but she'd sailed desperately close to the wind and taken J-J with her. Sooner or later he'd catch up with the boy and get another perspective on last night's little adventure but on the evidence to date he was amazed that Eadie should take a risk like that for a couple of minutes of video footage. It was, he told her, crazy.

  At this, she'd simply laughed. She'd spent half her life taking risks for whatever had seemed to matter at the time, and this movie of hers, this video, was simply another example. From where she was standing it was simply means and ends. If the light at the end of the tunnel was truly important and it was then she didn't care a toss about how dark it got. Whatever it took, however big the risk, it would be worth it.

  For Daniel's sake. And for all the other kids who might end up burying themselves in smack.

  At this point she'd had to take a call on her mobile, retreating to the privacy of the bedroom. Faraday had caught the name Sarah, but by the time Eadie re-emerged, minutes later, Faraday was on his way out.

  They'd exchanged a brief kiss at the door, Eadie plainly preoccupied, and Faraday had made a mental note to ring her later. He thought they were still friends but something new in her face had made him wonder.

  Now, at last on the move again, he pondered the obvious irony. Eadie knew nothing about the Bazza Mackenzie operation. He seldom discussed work with her and would never taint pillow talk with something as sensitive as Tumbril. Yet, in her own way, simply by plunging in at the deep end, she probably knew a great deal more about the reality of the drugs scene than he did.

  He smiled to himself, remembering Joyce's guided tour of the Tumbril premises. Shelf after shelf of files. Hundreds of surveillance photos. Thousands of documents. Hard disks brimming with audit trails and details of company structures. Countless evidential bricks to cement a case that might, God willing, put the city's major dealer away. All of this material was doubtless important, and over the coming days he'd have to get to grips with it, yet he was already sure that none of it was as compelling and vivid as the moment Eadie's young junkie lost his battle with the duvet and sank into unconsciousness.

  Stopped yet again by traffic, Faraday eyed his mobile. The lights up ahead were still red. He owed her a call. He knew he did. He reached for the phone and punched in her number.

  Engaged.

  Still in the flat, perched on a kitchen stool, Eadie knew it was important to let this man talk about his grief. He'd known about the death of his son for barely three hours. Greater Manchester Police had sent round a WPC first thing, briefed by SouthseaCID. Eadie, alerted to what had happened by a long phone conversation with Daniel's friend Sarah, was frank about the reason for her call. She wanted to express her sympathy. And she wanted to know how he was feeling.

  "Feeling?" He paused. "I don't know. I can't describe it. You ask a question like that, and I simply can't give you an answer. In one way I feel nothing, absolutely nothing."

  "Numb? Would that cover it?"

  "Numb would be good. Numb is right. Excuse me…" He broke off a moment and Eadie wondered whether the sudden catch in his voice was entirely authentic. There was something slightly stagey about this man, something the lingering remains of a down-home Lancashire accent couldn't quit
e disguise. Did he really care about the son he'd just lost? She couldn't decide.

  "How well did you know Daniel?" He was back again.

  "Barely at all. We only met yesterday."

  "Yesterday? How was he?"

  "Terrible. I shouldn't be saying this, Mr. Kelly, but he was in an awful state. You'll know he'd been using for a while?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I think it had got on top of him. He was a very unhappy man."

  "You're a friend of a friend?"

  "I'm afraid not. I was making a video."

  "A what?"

  "A video."

  "With Daniel?"

  "Yes."

  "About Daniel?"

  "As it turns out… yes."

  She began to explain about the video, where the idea had come from, the support she'd lined up city-wide, and how that support had eventually translated itself into funding.

  "That was the easy bit. The hard bit was finding Daniel."

  "What do you mean?" The question, this time, was unfeigned. She had this man's total attention.

  "Most people in his situation you wouldn't want to meet. Daniel was the exception. In a strange way he knew exactly what he was doing to himself and he had the guts and intelligence to get that over."

  "Guts?"

  "He was a brave man, Mr. Kelly. I couldn't have made the video without him." Eadie paused, waiting for some kind of reaction. As the silence deepened, she realised that she might just be an answer to this man's prayers, some tiny hope of rescuing something from the wreckage.

  "So what exactly were you doing with Daniel?" he asked at last. "This video thing?"

  "I did an interview with him. Then I taped him shooting up."

  "Shooting up? You mean the stuff that killed him?"

  "I'm afraid so. He'd have done it anyway. We just happened to be there."

  "You didn't bring the stuff with you?"

  "God, no."

  "And when you left him?"

  "He was asleep." She paused a beat. "And smiling. If you ever want to see the footage…" She let the invitation trail away.

  There was a long silence. Eadie rubbed at a grease spot on the kitchen work surface, biding her time. Finally, the voice returned, barely a whisper.

  "I don't know what to say. Truly, I don't. This is bizarre. I'm a lawyer. I get to meet all kinds of people and, take my word for it, not a lot gets by me. This is just… I don't know… Jesus…

  You don't pull your punches, do you?"

  "I'm afraid not. This is going to sound very tactless, I know, but there's to be a post-mortem. Daniel was a known IV user so they have to take various blood tests, HIV, Hep B, Hep C. Assuming he's clear, they'll be doing the PM tomorrow."

  "And?"

  "I'd like your permission to tape it."

  "The post-mortem?"

  "Yes. I'll need to talk to the coroner as well but your support will make that a great deal easier. And when you come down I'd like to do an interview."

  "With me?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because we have to see this story through. We have to know where it ends. The post-mortem is part of it. That's where junk leads. To the mortuary, to the dissecting table, to all of that. And afterwards, of course, there'll be the funeral."

  "You want to tape that too?"

  "Of course."

  "You said "we" just now. Who's "we"?"

  "You and me, Mr. Kelly. I'm simply the messenger. You're his dad.

  Together, I think we owe him."

  Another silence, even longer this time. Then Eadie bent to the phone again.

  "This video will be selling into schools," she said quietly. "With some of the proceeds I'd like to propose a memorial fund in Daniel's name. I know this can't be easy for you, Mr. Kelly, but we have to make some sense of a tragedy like this. Not just for Daniel's sake but for the millions of other kids who might put themselves at risk. I know you understand that and I'm not asking for a decision now. May I call you back in a while? Once you've had a chance to think it over?"

  The answer, when it came, was yes. Eadie smiled.

  "Yes to phoning you back?"

  "Yes to the post-mortem. And yes to all the rest of it."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "I'm positive. I don't want another conversation like this in my life but I admire you for asking. Does that make sense?"

  "Perfectly." Eadie was still smiling. "And thank you."

  Chapter eight

  THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 09.15

  Faraday couldn't take his eyes off Martin Prebble. For some reason he'd expected Tumbril's forensic accountant to be older, greyer, and altogether more in keeping with the painstaking business of teasing a successful prosecution from a million and one pieces of paper. Instead, he found himself introduced to an exuberant figure in his late twenties with gelled hair, designer jeans, and an expensive-looking collarless shirt. Oddest of all was a circular purple blotch, the size of a five-pence coin, high on his forehead. Half close your eyes, and it might have been a caste mark.

  "Paintballing," Prebble explained at once. "Mate's stag do last night.

  Guy I was up against thought he'd pop me at point-blank range. He's an investment banker. Brain-dead since birth."

  "You're telling me it's permanent, honey?" It was Joyce arriving with a plate of chocolate biscuits, plainly concerned.

  "Haven't a clue. Half an hour with a packet of frozen peas says no but I wouldn't rule out cosmetic surgery…" He reached up to help himself to one of the biscuits. "Clever, though, eh? Tough shot from three feet."

  Brian Imber was waiting for the meeting to settle down. The space he'd cleared in the middle of the Tumbril conference table was promptly commandeered by Joyce. The way she bent low over Prebble, depositing the tray of coffees, told Faraday she'd fallen in love again. Young, good-looking, and funny. Never failed.

  "We've got most of this morning." Imber was looking at Prebble. "Like I said on the phone, we need to get Joe up to speed."

  "No problem." The words just made it through a mouthful of biscuit.

  "My pleasure."

  Prebble, it turned out, had spent the early months of his involvement with Tumbril burying himself in every last shred of evidence until Mackenzie had become as familiar to him as a member of his own family.

  Only with a picture this complete, he told Faraday, did he feel confident enough to apply the appropriate financial protocols — pursuing particular audit trails, leaning on conveyancers and the Land Registry for details of umpteen property transactions, chasing up invoices and bank payments in a bid to build a day-to-day profile of Mackenzie's expenditure, and thus get the measure of his real wealth.

  Imber, recognising this young man's talent for getting inside the head of Tumbril's principal target, had decided to turn the entire briefing over to him. Only when it was absolutely necessary would he contribute thoughts of his own.

  "Have you ever met Mackenzie?" Faraday was still watching Prebble.

  "Never had the pleasure. I know him on paper figures mainly, intelligence files from Brian, surveillance snaps, gossip but that's pretty much it."

  "Informants?"

  "Very little. Brian says that's unusual but my guess is these guys are tight with each other, always have been. That's what you breed down here. The place feels tribal to me."

  Faraday smiled. It was a shrewd judgement.

  "And do you like what you see?"

  "In some ways I do, yes. I'm an accountant. I know the way money works. This guy's been well advised, and more to the point he's listened. That's not always the case, believe me. I've done legitimate audits, big corporate stuff, where the guy behind the big desk listens to no one and blows a big hole in the bottom line.

  Mackenzie's not like that. Most of the time he watches every penny.

  He's a peasant at heart, and that's served him well. Plus, I understand he can be ruthless. Two reasons why he's a rich man."

  "How rich
?"

  "Last time we counted? Including all the nominee assets?" He frowned.

  "Nine million four, give or take. And that's discounting narcotics in the pipeline, either on order or unsold."

  "You're telling me he's still dealing?"

  "God, no. He's well past that. But analysis tells me he bankrolls others and takes a slice. It's standard practice, happens all over.

  You get to a point where you can't be arsed with all the running around. Ten years ago, he might have been closer to the front line but the last couple of years he's been back in the chateau. Ninety-five per cent of what he's up to now is totally legit, just like any other businessman. Which I guess explains why I'm here."

  Faraday's attention had strayed to the big colour blow-up of Mackenzie's Craneswater mansion on the wall. Prebble was right. With a multi-million-pound business empire to look after, Mackenzie was far too busy to stoop to simple criminality. Hence Nick Hayder's contortions baiting the Spit Bank trap. Only by threatening his bid for the big time could Tumbril hope to manoeuvre Mackenzie into compromising himself.

  Prebble said it was worth an hour or so just talking about Bazza, and apologised in advance if he was repeating what Faraday already knew.

  Faraday waved the apology away. It was something of a relief to find someone who was prepared to walk him, step by step, through the entire story.

  Mackenzie, Prebble explained, came from a Copnor family, a tight-knit area of terraced streets in the north-east corner of the city. His dad had been a welder in the dockyard and had scraped to get young Barry into St. Joseph's College.

  This came as news to Faraday. St. Joe's was a Catholic boarding school in Southsea, high academic standards plus a dose or two of discipline from the Christian Brothers.

  "His father could afford the fees?"

  "No way. The boy won a scholarship. I told you just now, the man's bright. Wayward, but bright."

  Bazza, he said, had hated the school. For one thing, they played rugby when he was mad about football. For another, he couldn't stand wearing the same uniform as all those poncy rich kids. By the age of fourteen he'd been suspended twice, once for persistent smoking, and again for running a rudimentary protection racket, extorting everything from Bounty bars to Clash albums. After a monumental row with his disappointed father, he chucked in the towel at St. Joe's and joined his Copnor mates at the local Isambard Brunei comprehensive. Three scraped passes at GCSE provoked another family row, and at the age of sixteen he left home to doss down with his elder brother Mark, who was by now making a living as a painter and decorator.