Cut to Black faw-5

by Graham Hurley

  "Crack houses?" he suggested bleakly. "Machetes? Glocks? Where does all this bloody end?"

  Faraday got to Hampshire Terrace in mid afternoon. He found J-J at the PC, sorting through video rushes from Al Jazeera. On screen, some wary-looking US troops, taken prisoner by the Iraqis, were being paraded for the benefit of the world's press. Watching their faces, Faraday realised just how helpless both armies had become in the face of political decisions taken half a world away. These men were barely out of their teens. For all their hi-tech body armour and helmet-mounted gizmos, they understood nothing of the people they'd been dispatched to liberate. Now, as prisoners of war, they were clearly expecting the worst.

  Faraday laid his hand on his son's shoulder, making J-J jump.

  "We need a world without politicians," he signed. "Can you get that in your video?"

  J-J thought about the challenge for a moment or two. Then, to Faraday's immense relief, he grinned.

  "Eadie's been looking for you," he signed back. "I think she's gone home."

  "Home?"

  "The flat."

  Faraday spotted Eadie's battered Suzuki parked on the se afront opposite the converted hotel that housed her apartment. He slipped the Mondeo into an adjoining space and sat behind the wheel for a moment or two, wondering quite how to handle what would inevitably follow.

  Willard had made it absolutely plain that Faraday himself was implicated by Ambrym's acceptance of Mackenzie's money. Any investigating senior officer any court would view the tie-up with profound suspicion. On the other hand, the last few days had shaken Faraday to the core, and in ways that surprised him he realised how much he missed this woman's company. Eadie being Eadie, she was probably unaware of any sense of crisis between them but that, in a way, was the point. Eadie was one of the world's great optimists. She had boundless faith in her own abilities and the guts to see a challenge through. The rest, as she so often pointed out, was conversation.

  He found her upstairs, perched on a stool by the phone. The moment Faraday appeared, she blew him a kiss and pointed at the kettle. She wanted needed tea. Faraday busied himself with the Earl Grey and managed to find a packet of ginger snaps in the tin she used for biscuits.

  The conversation on the phone was becoming heated. No, she had absolutely no intention of making money on this deal. The movie was going into schools at cost price. Given any kind of demand, she could dupe VHS cassettes at fifty pence. Even with postage and packing there couldn't be a school in the country that couldn't afford a couple of quid for a glimpse of the truth. When the voice at the other end started to argue again, she cut him off.

  "I don't care a fuck what you think," she said. "If it's that important, I'll send you a cheque." She put the phone down, shaking her head. "Arsehole."

  "Who was that?"

  "Guy called Mackenzie. Turns out he backed my movie. Now he's asking fifty per cent of the profits. Profits? How gross is that?"

  "What else did he say?"

  "He said he wanted to see it. I told him my pleasure. Then he started up with all this nonsense about marketing and copyright and selling the arse off the thing."

  "Was that his phrase or yours?"

  "Please, Joe? Does that sound like me?"

  "In some moods, yes."

  "Really? Am I that horrible?"

  "Tell me more." Faraday nodded at the phone.

  "That's about it." Eadie helped herself to a biscuit. "Doug had obviously sold him the video on the phone and he couldn't wait to turn it into a big fat royalty cheque. So I told him to bugger off. You probably heard."

  Faraday nodded. He'd only met Doug Hughes once. Eadie had spotted him in a pub they sometimes used and had insisted on doing the introductions. Hughes had been with a striking-looking blonde, and on the evidence of five minutes conversation Faraday had rather liked him.

  "How does Doug know Mackenzie?"

  "Haven't a clue. The man must be seriously wealthy. Doug's silly around that kind of money, always has been. He can't help himself.

  Moth to the flame."

  "Have you any idea what Mackenzie does for a living?"

  "None. Apart from ripping off Aussie producers."

  "He's a drug dealer." Faraday saw no point in keeping secrets any more.

  "Mackenzie? You're serious?"

  "Very. You're really telling me you didn't know?"

  "Hadn't a clue. All I saw was the cheque. Without the seven grand, none of this would ever have happened." She stared at him a moment.

  "You want to see the final cut?"

  She had a VHS of the video in her day sack. While Faraday poured the tea, she knelt in front of the player and turned on the television.

  Moments later, Faraday turned to find himself looking at a close-up of a needle probing for a vein. Eadie sat back on the carpet, totally absorbed. When Faraday joined her with the tea, she leant back into him for support.

  "The next bit's incredible," she murmured. "Just you watch."

  Winter had spent most of the day calculating exactly when he'd phone Mackenzie. Too early, and he might have time to make inquiries of his own. Too late, and he'd miss the boat.

  The ferry left at 11.00 p.m. According to Jimmy Suttle, Trudy, her mum, and Mike Valentine were having an early farewell supper at a restaurant they both liked over in Chichester. After that, they'd be running Trude back to Buriton. One last visit to pick up some things from the house in Waterlooville, then they'd be heading down the A3 to the Continental Ferry port.

  Around six, Winter had decided, would be perfect. Now, with news of another British squaddie killed in action on the car radio, Winter made the call. Mackenzie answered at once. He must have keyed the number into his directory.

  "Mr. Winter." He was laughing. "That's twice in less than a week."

  "We need to meet."

  "Why?"

  "There's something I need to get off my chest. Informal would be better, if you know what I mean. Where are you?"

  "In the office."

  "Kent Road?"

  "That's right."

  "Stay there. I'll be ten minutes."

  Winter didn't hang on for confirmation. Across the road, he could see the big gated mansion that Mackenzie had turned into his corporate headquarters. Since his last visit, the walls of adjacent properties had attracted yet more graffiti. On Bazza's smoothly plastered battlements, still nothing.

  Half expecting Bazza to leave, Winter listened to the news before making his way across the road. Mackenzie answered the door in person.

  He was wearing nicely cut jeans and a plain white T-shirt. The laughter had gone.

  "This better be important," he said. "I've cancelled a meeting because of you."

  "Upstairs, then?"

  Winter walked past him and began to mount the staircase. At the top, Mackenzie pushed past him. The lights were on in the office at the end of the corridor. Winter didn't wait for an invitation before he sat down.

  "You've pissed me off," he said softly. "Big time."

  "Yeah? Why's that, then?"

  "What happened to Suttle."

  "He was out of order."

  "Wrong. Baz. You were out of order. The guy could have got badly hurt."

  "Shame he wasn't. Chris told me he went down like a squinny. What's the problem these days? Can't recruit the right kind of blokes?

  Listen, if this is all you've come to say then you'd better fuck off now. What happened on Saturday was down to that mate of yours. Or maybe even you."

  "Me? How does that work?"

  "Didn't I warn you? Didn't I tell you about my Trude?"

  "Your Trude?" It was Winter's turn to laugh.

  "Yeah, my Trude. Got a problem with that?"

  "Not at all." Winter sat back, then glanced at his watch. "I see Mike Valentine's off."

  "That's right. Tonight's ferry. Fuengirola, lucky bastard."

  "What's lucky about that? The place is full of low life, the way I hear it. Dealers. Expats. Men with too much money and no
taste."

  "Yeah? Money get up your nose, does it? No fucking surprise, the pittance you guys pull. No, Mike'll be nicely set up. Even speaks Spanish. Can you believe that? Pompey boy?"

  "Still be in touch, will you?"

  "Definitely."

  "Business? Or old times' sake?"

  "Both. Mike's a natural. Bloke's got class. You can see it. He treats people right. He charms them. He can make money just by the way he smiles."

  "You're right. And not just money." Winter produced a carefully folded A4 sheet and tossed it onto Mackenzie's desk. "Read that."

  "What is it?"

  "Have a look and you'll find out."

  Wary now, Mackenzie reached for the document. Winter watched him flatten it on the desk. The top line gave him the clue. Halfway down the page, he looked up.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "Mist's place."

  "She gave it to you?"

  "I lifted it." Winter smiled at him.

  "You're talking bollocks. She's been there all week."

  "Not on Saturday she wasn't."

  "You're winding me up."

  "Not at all. The Lanesborough up in town. Lift the phone. Here's the number. Suite fourteen. Booked in the name of Mr. and Mrs.

  Valentine."

  "Mike?" He still didn't believe it.

  "The very same."

  "Cunt." His voice was barely audible. He'd gone back to the paternity certificate. Finally he looked up, a strange gleam in his eyes. "This better be some kind of joke, mush, else…" He nodded towards the door, dismissing Winter, then reached for the phone.

  Eadie and Faraday had spent the best part of two hours discussing the video. Faraday had watched it twice; he wanted to make sure his first impressions were correct. The original material had been powerful enough images he'd found genuinely shocking but Eadie's editing had shaped these pictures in such a way that their cumulative impact was irresistible.

  The sheer momentum of the thing was, to Faraday, beyond rational explanation. It had a passion, and a pulse, that seized you by the throat and never once let go. By the end he was, in turns, saddened, angered, and determined to do something positive. Sharing Daniel Kelly's story with the widest possible audience would be a very good start. Bang on doors. Spread the message. Force kids to the video machine. Whatever.

  "I don't know how you did that," he told her. "It's totally beyond me."

  "You think it's OK? Hits the mark?"

  "I think it's horrible. And I think it definitely hits the mark."

  "So all those rules I broke…?"

  "Pain in the arse. Definitely."

  "And Mackenzie?"

  "You blagged seven grand of his money. Congratulations."

  "Friends again, then?" She got up from the sofa and kissed him on the mouth. Then she paused. "What's the name of that boss of yours?"

  "Willard."

  "No." She shook her head. "The uniformed guy."

  "Secretan. He's a Chief Superintendent."

  "First name?"

  "Andy." He gazed at her. "Why?"

  Chapter twenty-four

  MONDAY, 24 MARCH 2003, 19.45

  Faraday was late getting to the Sally Port Hotel. He stepped into the lobby, shedding his coat, already aware of the warm buzz of conversation from the nearby bar. Clerics were everywhere, robed in black. At the end of the corridor, Faraday found a small function room. A youth in a scarlet waistcoat was circulating with a tray of canapes and a waitress Faraday seemed to recognise was edging through the press of bodies, topping up wine glasses. The entire cathedral had emptied, Faraday thought, and decamped across the road.

  "How are you?"

  Faraday turned to find himself face to face with Nigel Phillimore.

  "I'm fine."

  "Better?"

  "Yes." Faraday felt slightly embarrassed. "Thank you."

  "Good." Phillimore took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Come and meet our guests."

  For the next half-hour, Faraday did his best to disguise his ignorance about plainchant. Politeness urged him to compliment these men on their performance last night, but as soon as he could he shifted the conversation onto safer ground. He wanted to know about Tallinn, about Estonia, about the kind of life you might lead up there beside the Baltic, about the local bird life He was keen, as well, to sound them out about Portsmouth what they made of the city, what they'd tell their friends when they returned home and as the second glass of Cotes du Rhone settled peaceably on the excellent beef sandwiches, he realised he was enjoying himself.

  Their music had been austere, almost chilling, but the Estonians had a warmth and curiosity that created an instant rapport. They liked Portsmouth. One of them even called it Pompey, the way you might refer to a favourite child. The place had spirit, he said, and lots of mischief. Plenty had happened here. You could feel it in the narrow streets and alleys around Old Portsmouth, in the sepia photos on the walls of the cafe down the road. He'd bought a couple of books and one day he'd definitely come back for a proper look. He had some Russian friends in St. Petersburg and he knew they'd like it too. All Russians, he said, were pirates at heart and they'd definitely feel at home in Pompey.

  The thought amused Faraday, and when another of the Estonians enquired about his job, he saw no point in keeping it a secret.

  "Cop?" said one, rolling his eyes.

  "Detective?" said another.

  Faraday nodded, fending them off when they pressed him for war stories, but their enthusiasm loosened his tongue further still and he was happy to leave his card when the time came for him to leave.

  "Give me a ring if you ever come back." He shook the circle of outstretched hands. "Be a pleasure to show you around."

  Back in the lobby, he searched for his coat. There was no one behind reception but he caught sight of the waitress with the canapes coming towards him with an empty tray. Her face again. He knew he'd seen it before.

  She led him down to the cloakroom, pushing the door open and stepping back to let him retrieve his coat. Room 6, he thought. The afternoon he'd first met Wallace and rung down for room service.

  Struggling into his coat, Faraday watched the woman disappearing towards the kitchen. Then, struck by another thought, he called her back.

  "Is the manager around by any chance?" he asked.

  "Yes. I think he's in his office."

  "Might I have a word?" He smiled at her and dug in his pocket for a card. "Detective Inspector Faraday. Major Crimes Team."

  Winter found the techie from Special Ops waiting for him on the quay side He'd phoned him half an hour earlier from Kingston Crescent, straight out of a meeting with Cathy Lamb, and the man had assured him that everything was in place. His name was Gulliver. Thanks to P amp;O, he'd taken the day crossing to Le Havre and back, plenty of time to install mikes and a tiny video camera wired through to the adjoining cabin. All Winter and his mates had to do was make themselves at home next door and wait for the curtain to go up.

  Now, Gulliver hurried Winter towards the gantry that offered foot passengers access to the ferry. The ship towered above them, tall as a block of flats, forbidding in the spill of light from the quay side floods. The last of the inbound lorries were still grinding off the ramp at the bow, but the turn round times were tight and the waiting queue of vehicles in the embarkation park would soon be loading.

  Inside the ferry, cleaners were hoovering around the reception desk.

  Gulliver had already made his number with the ship's purser, a middle-aged woman with nice legs and a busy manner. She shook Winter's outstretched hand, then glanced at her watch. Time was evidently moving on.

  "I'm still not clear how many of you we're expecting."

  "Six. Myself and five others."

  "They'll be here soon?"

  "Two have already arrived, both plain clothes." It was Gulliver. "I put them in the cabin."

  "Really? What about the rest?"

  Winter took over. Danny French, the other DC f
rom the squad, would be here any minute. Winter had left him at Kingston Crescent, looking for his passport.

  "He doesn't need a passport. Unless you plan to get off."

  "It's a contingency, that's all." Winter was at his smoothest. "The other two guys are from Scenes of Crime."

  "And they're the ones who need access to the vehicle decks?"

  "Please." Winter glanced at Gulliver. "You arranged for a fix on Valentine's motor?"

  "I did it this afternoon on the way over. The loading officer's got the details. He'll let us know the lane number and access door as soon as they're through down below."

  The purser looked at her watch again.

  "Are these Scenes of Crime people in uniform? Only our passengers might get a little bit ' "No." Winter shook his head. "They're both plain clothes. They belled me half an hour ago. They're in a white van. It's all booked through. In fact they're probably in the car park now."

  "And they'll liaise with you?"

  "Yeah." Winter nodded. "Once we've sorted Mr. Valentine I'll give them a ring and they can come down to the cabin. They'll need Valentine's car keys before they start on his motor."

  The purser nodded. She was looking thoughtful now.

  "What does "sorted" mean?" she said at last.

  The traffic was light on the motorway out of the city. The rain had gone through hours ago and Faraday could see a fat yellow moon rising in the east. The wind was cold through the open window and there were torn shreds of cloud over the distant shadows of Portchester Castle.

  At the top of the harbour, Faraday took the Southampton arm of the motorway, easing into the slow lane for the long ascent through Portsdown Hill. He couldn't be sure, not absolutely sure, but his instinct told him that it was too good a clue to ignore. His whole career had been built on moments like this, a scrap of a memory tucked away and suddenly retrieved. He knew it needed, at the very least, explanation. He sensed, beyond that, the possibility that it might bring this whole sorry episode to some kind of closure. Closure, he thought, was all too exact a term the kind of word a psychiatrist might use — and he shuddered to think what the next couple of hours might bring.

  Twenty minutes later he took the motorway exit for Southampton's eastern suburbs, finding himself in a tangle of roundabouts and trading estates. He drove around for a while looking for a landmark he recognised, eventually finding a pub called the Battle of Britain. From here, a slight hill led down to the housing estate. The road into the estate was on the right. A couple more turns and he'd be looking for the house with Joyce's Datsun in the drive. From that point on, providing he'd got this thing right, there'd be no turning back.