Cut to Black faw-5

by Graham Hurley

  They were through the barrier now, and crossing the bridge beside the ferry port. Faraday wanted to know where she was living.

  "Home. Just like always."

  "And Neil?"

  "You tell me, honey. He phones me up, writes me letters, sends huge bunches of flowers, tries to explain what a big mistake he'd made. Me?

  I tell him to go to hell. Most times we get one pass at life. This lady's been given two. You think I'm gonna waste me on that bastard again? The nerve of the guy."

  She shook her head, gazing out at the traffic. Beside the roundabout at the end of the motorway into the city, a handful of students were milling around beneath a big hand-lettered placard in what looked like

  an impromptu demonstration. The placard read STOP THE WAR! 6 P.M. GUILDHALL SQUARE.

  "There's another shit head." Joyce was fumbling for her lipstick.

  "Who?"

  "Boy George. Can you believe that man? And can you credit my dickhead countrymen for voting the guy in? Not that he even fucking won in the first place."

  Faraday smiled to himself, reaching for the car radio. This was a new Joyce, feistier than ever, her raw enjoyment of life edged by something close to anger. Maybe she was right. Maybe a glimpse of oblivion, your own life suddenly on the line, robbed voter apathy of its charms.

  A pundit on Radio Four was speculating on the lengths Saddam might go to in Iraq. Oil wells were already blazing around Basra. Might he also torch the northern oilfields?

  "You feel comfortable with all this?" Faraday gestured out at the students.

  "The war or the protest?"

  "The war."

  "Hell, no. But you know something? The problem isn't what folk like Bush get us into. It isn't even all those little kids you're going to see in the wreckage once we've bombed the be jesus out of the place.

  No, the real problem is the fact that us Americans actually believe all this shit. We're doing it for liberty and freedom. We're killing Iraqis to make them better human beings. Believe me, sheriff, when the world comes to an end, it'll be the Americans who pull the trigger. And you know something else? It'll be in all our best interests. You heard it first from me, Joe. Takes a Yank to know a Yank." She applied a final dab of powder from a small compact, then snapped it shut. "How about you?"

  "I loathe it."

  "I meant your love life."

  "What?" Faraday brought the car to a halt again. The directness of this woman never ceased to amaze him. Even Eadie Sykes was a novice compared to Joyce.

  "Just wondering, honey. Last time I had the pleasure of your company, you were shacked up with a Spanish lady. Am I right?"

  "Yes. Sort of."

  "Still together?"

  "No."

  "Someone else?"

  "Yes."

  "Serious?"

  "Straightforward. We laugh a lot."

  "You love her?"

  "That's a big question."

  "You living together?"

  "No."

  "She got a place of her own? Somewhere private?"

  "Yes."

  "Is she married? Tied up with someone else?"

  "Absolutely not." He looked across at her. "What is this?"

  "Nothing, honey. Just curious, that's all. You know something else about the Big C? It gives you the right to ask the hard questions."

  She paused a moment, staring out at the lunchtime shoppers dodging through the stalled traffic. "Mind if I pop another one?"

  "Not at all."

  "You're sure?"

  "Absolutely."

  "OK." She reached forward and tapped the receipt Faraday had left on the dashboard. "How come you're having room service at the Sally Port Hotel if this relationship's so great?"

  Eadie Sykes found Martin Eckersley bent over a copy of the Independent when she finally made it to the Cafe Parisien. She was ten minutes late and he was already on page 4.

  She pulled up a seat and gave the proffered menu the briefest of glances.

  "Three-egg omelette and fries." She nodded at the empty cup beside the paper. "Cappuccino to start."

  "I thought you were on a diet?"

  "Never. We're talking four miles a day at the moment, and that's before I even break a sweat. Girl's got to refuel otherwise she falls over." She grinned at him. "How's you?"

  "Busy."

  He began to tell her about the Leigh Park death, a woman in her mid forties with a history of mental disturbance and a fondness for cheap vodka. She'd been found dead in bed with an empty bottle of painkillers on the pillow and no sign of a note. Eadie let him air his worries about the possibility of interference by some other party, then leant forward, touching him lightly on the hand.

  "Daniel Kelly…?" she said.

  Eckersley paused in mid sentence. He was a small, neat, attentive man with bright eyes behind rimless glasses and a carefully tended moustache. A lawyer by training, he'd left a profitable Birmingham practice after a couple of years as Deputy for the city's Coroner. The world of sudden death, he'd once confessed to Eadie, had put him back in touch with real life. Not as just an inquisitor, trying to establish the truth about a particular set of circumstances, but as a human being, doing his best to ease the grief of those left behind.

  "I read the file this morning," he said. "Such as it is. One of my blokes talked to a DC first thing. How much do we know about the lad?"

  The 'we? put a smile on Eadie's face. She'd known from their first meeting that she represented something new and slightly exotic in this man's life.

  "He was bright, very bright. Older than your average student and pretty much alone."

  She told him about Kelly's background, the wreckage of his parents' marriage, the way he'd rafted around the world on a fat monthly allowance, a bewildered loner looking for some sense of direction.

  "Or purpose."

  "Quite."

  "And the drugs?"

  "Supplied that purpose."

  "You're serious?"

  "I am. You should listen to him, Martin. A couple of tapes are on their way to you. A nice detective seized them this morning. Kept asking me about supply of Class A drugs. Made me feel like a criminal."

  "You were there," Eckersley pointed out. "In fact you were probably the last person to see him alive. That makes you a witness."

  "That's what he said but that doesn't mean I killed him, does it? The key word here is "witness". I played the recording angel. Got it all down on tape, the whole story."

  "Good stuff? Effective?"

  "Unbelievable. You can judge for yourself but, believe me, the guy's amazing. What he says is pretty controversial and it might not be our take on hard drugs but that doesn't make it any less valid. More to the point, he sounds authentic. He's been there. He is there. Any kid watching will know that, sense that, and at the end of the day some of them just might listen. Here." Eadie rummaged in her day sack and produced a hastily folded photocopy. "I know you've got the world's best memory but I thought this might help."

  Eckersley studied the photocopy. Three months ago, he'd been part of the review process, helping to check out Eadie's submission to the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership for match-funding on her video project.

  Their first encounter had taken place in the Coroner's Office at Highland Road police station, a meeting of minds fuelled by appalling coffee. Eadie had deliberately left room for last-minute adjustments in the twenty-four-page submission document believing that heavyweight support could only strengthen her case and within a week, after further exchanges on the phone, she and Eckersley had agreed the single paragraph that seemed to sum up the thrust of Eadie's video.

  Eadie waited until Eckersley had finished. Then she retrieved the photocopy, looking him in the eye, and began to read the paragraph aloud.

  ' "The documentary maker has a duty to level the ground between the audience at risk and the real nature of the offending behaviour. The emphasis should be on reality… on real people, real causes, real consequences. There should be no
need for homilies, for finger-wagging, for lists of do's and don'ts. The case for not using drugs should make itself." '

  She glanced up. "The important word is "consequences", Martin. Like I said, the interview is knockout, but if you want the truth there's only so much that words can do. What we need now are pictures, the rest of the story, what actually happens in a case like this."

  "You mean the post-mortem."

  "Sure. And the funeral. And the father. And maybe you. All of that."

  "You don't think that's intrusive?"

  "Intrusive? Dear God, of course it's intrusive. But that's precisely the issue because drugs themselves are intrusive. In fact they're so bloody intrusive they kill you. And even if that doesn't happen, even if you limp on, more or less intact, they still take your life away. If that wasn't the truth, we wouldn't be talking like this. Nor would I be spending half my life running round after bloody junkies." She beckoned him closer, aware of listening ears at nearby tables. "My point is simple, Martin. It's consequences again. Just ask yourself a question. How many kids are going to be shooting up if they're thinking about bodies on slabs? About Daniel Kelly getting himself sliced up? Emptied? Weighed? Whatever else happens in the mortuary?

  Is all that such a great advert for hard drugs?"

  "Have you ever seen a post-mortem?"

  "Never."

  "They're horrible."

  "Good." Eadie held his gaze for a moment. "Because that's the whole point."

  The waitress arrived. After some thought, Eckersley settled for a ham salad. Then he folded his newspaper and slipped it into the briefcase beside his chair.

  "There's something else we ought to take on board," he said finally.

  "And that's the effect on your co-sponsors."

  "They've all signed up," Eadie said at once. "I've been totally frank from the start. I've told them exactly what to expect and there's absolutely nothing in this video that should take them by surprise. In fact, if anything I thought we'd have the opposite problem."

  "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning I couldn't deliver what I promised. Meaning I'd end up with a mishmash of talking heads and millions of kids in thousands of classrooms all half asleep. Thanks to Dan, that isn't going to happen."

  "You're assuming I'm going to let you into the PM?"

  "I'm assuming we share the same ambitions for the end result."

  "That's not necessarily the same thing."

  "Martin, I think deep down you know it is. You've got a problem here.

  I understand that. It's your jurisdiction, your call. Jesus, as far as I understand it, Daniel Kelly actually belongs to you until you deliver a verdict at the inquest. But let's just take the bigger picture. I can get permission from Kelly's father faxed to you this afternoon. That might relieve some of the pressure. Then there's the shoot itself. I have one-hundred-per-cent confidence in what I'm doing, in the need for all this stuff. I know how it will play on the screen. I know the difference it will make. It's a tricky thing to do, I know it is, but all I'm asking is an act of faith. Believe in me, Martin. And believe in what we're trying to do."

  "I'm still concerned about your co-sponsors."

  "Don't be."

  "The Police Authority? You really think they'll be up for this?"

  "They'll love it. They spend half their lives trying to give people a shake."

  "The city council?"

  "They might well be queasy. But does that make them right?"

  "Maybe not, but you'll have to be ready for all that. And how about your private sponsors? There'll be enormous publicity, headlines in the press, letters… Have they really signed up for this kind of controversy?"

  "Most of them are in for a couple of hundred quid each. If they want to take their names off the project, they'll be more than welcome."

  "And your Mr. Hughes? 7000, wasn't it?"

  Eadie nodded, surprised at his grasp of the figures. Doug Hughes was Eadie's first husband, a successful independent accountant with a small clientele of local businessmen. He and Eadie had been divorced now for nearly six years but had stayed good friends. Both her flat and Ambrym's office premises were rented from her ex-husband's company, and he'd supported the video project from the start.

  "The 7000 isn't his. He's simply acting as a middle man. The real donor wants to stay out of it."

  "Anonymous?"

  "Absolutely. Even I haven't got a clue where the seven grand comes from." She paused, watching the waitress approach an adjoining table with a big bowl of pasta. "Either way, he's not going to be making any kind of fuss. Does that make things any easier?"

  Eckersley didn't answer. Instead, he waited for the waitress to finish, then beckoned her over.

  "Red or white wine?" He glanced across at Eadie with a sudden smile.

  "My treat."

  Faraday parked his Mondeo outside the cathedral and walked the last fifty metres to the Pembroke. The pub stood on a corner on the main road out to Southsea and had won itself a reputation for reliable beer, home-cooked lunches, and an interesting clientele. Some evenings, you might find yourself drinking alongside half a dozen basses from the cathedral choir. Other nights, you'd be sharing the bar with an assortment of broken-nosed veterans from the Royal Naval field-gun crew.

  DC Paul Winter was perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, engrossed in the midday edition of the News. The pub was busy, and to Faraday's surprise Winter didn't look out of place amongst the gathering of lunchtime drinkers, men of a certain age blunting the edges of the day with a pint or two before settling down to an afternoon of horse racing in front of the telly. Give Winter a couple of years, thought Faraday, and he might be doing this full time.

  "Boss?" Winter had caught his eye and was semaphoring a drink.

  "No, thanks." Faraday barely touched the outstretched hand. "I thought we might take a walk."

  Winter looked at him a moment, then drew his attention to the newspaper. The front page was dominated by a grainy photo showing the concourse at the town station. A couple of medics and a fireman were crouched over a body slumped beside one of the ticket barriers, while a handful of passengers waited patiently to get through. WELCOME TO POMPEY ran the headline.

  "One of the punters had a digital camera in his briefcase." Winter was buttoning his coat. "Apparently Secretan's gone ballistic' "Why?"

  "You don't know about this morning? One of our Scouse friends?"

  "Tell me."

  Winter eased himself off the bar stool, drained the remains of his pint, and shepherded Faraday towards the door. By the time they'd reached the se afront Faraday was up to speed.

  "You're telling me the Cavalier belonged to the kid on the station?"

  "Tenner says yes."

  "And the plate checks out with the Nick Hayder vehicle?"

  "Scenes of Crime are all over it. They think there may be DNA residues around the offside headlamp. Won't know for certain until they've trucked it away for tests but I'll give you short odds on another yes.

  That puts the Scouser in the shit. Big time."

  "We're talking Nick's DNA?"

  "Yes."

  "So where's the Scouse kid now?"

  "Still in hospital, as far as I know. Cathy Lamb's sorting some arrangement over protection."

  "From who?"

  Winter stared at him. By now they were out on the fortifications, walking briskly towards the fun fair at Clarence Pier.

  "Bazza Mackenzie mean anything to you, boss? Local guy? Made a bob or two out of the white stuff? Not fussed who knows it? Only a little bird tells me Bazza's not best pleased with our Scouse friends. Wants them out of town. Hence the lift to the station."

  "You can prove that?"

  "Give me a couple of days," Winter nodded, 'and the answer's yes. Not Bazza himself, of course, but a mate of his, Chris Talbot. We've got him on video, him and another fella, doing the business at the station.

  That's the thing about Bazza nowadays, isn't it? Bit fussy about appearanc
es. Can't stand the sight of blood. Shame, really. He was a good scrapper once."

  Both men had come to a halt on the wooden bridge that straddled the remains of the Spur Redoubt, the outermost edge of the ancient fortifications. From here on, the Pompey garrison would have been in no-man's land, at the mercy of events, an irony not lost on Faraday.

  "You mentioned J-J on the phone," Faraday said carefully. "What's happened?"

  Winter thought about the question, his hands on the wooden rail of the bridge. To Faraday, he'd always had a certain physical presence, a bluff matey self-confidence that had served him well over the years.

  Winter was the DC you put into the cells at the Bridewell on a Monday morning, knowing he'd emerge with yet more recruits to his ever-swelling army of informants. And Winter, on a job that took his fancy, was a detective who had the wit and the experience to dream up an angle that would never have occurred to anyone else. In thief-taking terms, as Faraday had frequently pointed out to his exasperated bosses, the man was a priceless asset in any CID office.

  Yet at the same time Winter was dangerous. He pledged his loyalty to no one and didn't care who knew it. Show him a weakness, any weakness, and he'd turn you inside out. Once, a couple of years back, he'd arrived uninvited at the Bargemaster's House, late at night, bewildered and distraught at what was happening to his dying wife. Joannie had inoperable cancer. The doctors were measuring her life in weeks. And Winter, in his rage and despair, had been utterly lost. For a couple of hours, over a bottle of Bell's, the two men had stepped out of their respective jobs and simply compared notes. Faraday knew about widowhood and had the scars to prove it. Winter, who'd never ceased to play the field when opportunities presented themselves, just couldn't contemplate a life without his precious Joannie. He'd let her down.

  He'd taken her for granted. And now, all too suddenly, it was far, far too late to make amends.

  That night, as Winter wandered away into the dark, Faraday had known they'd got as close to each other as two needful human beings ever can.

  Since then, a dozen small betrayals had given the lie to those moments of kinship. Yet here he was, back on intimate territory, and Faraday wanted to know why.