Cut to Black faw-5

by Graham Hurley

  Crewdson raised a weary hand.

  "DC Winter." He sounded, if anything, disappointed. "This is an outrage and you know it."

  "Outrage?"

  "My client has been arrested for arson. I fail to see the significance of this line of questioning. And, aside from the law, I find it deeply distasteful."

  "You do?"

  "Indeed. As, I suspect, does my client."

  Winter was looking puzzled. "We're not interested in motive here?"

  "Motive for what?"

  "Arson."

  "My client denies the charge. Whatever happened earlier on your videotape has absolutely no bearing on the matter in hand."

  "How about we watch the whole tape, then? Take Mr. Mackenzie through it? See what happened before? Put this whole incident in context?" He looked round. "No?"

  There was a long silence. Even Danny French was studying his hands.

  Finally Mackenzie sat back in his chair. For the first time since the interview began, he was smiling.

  "You know something?" He was looking at Winter. "You've fucking lost it."

  The interview came to an end twenty minutes later. After a brief conference with Winter and French, the Custody Sergeant summoned Crewdson and told him that for the time being Mr. Mackenzie would not be facing charges. He was granting him police bail while further inquiries were made, but for now he was free to leave.

  As Crewdson and Mackenzie headed for the door, the Custody Sergeant beckoned Winter to the desk.

  "Message from Scenes of Crime." He put on his glasses and peered at the scribbled note. "They've stripped the BMW but found nothing." He glanced up. "I understand the parties involved have been released."

  Winter and French emerged from Central minutes later. It was getting dark by now and it took a moment or two for Winter to recognise the figure standing by the roundabout. Mackenzie.

  "Waiting for a lift," French grunted. "Must be."

  Winter said nothing. He walked French to his Subaru, glancing over his shoulder to check on Mackenzie again. By the time they were both in the car, he was still at the kerb side still waiting.

  For a full minute Winter sat motionless behind the wheel. French wanted to get back to Kingston Crescent.

  "Well? Are we here all fucking night or what?"

  "Wait."

  "Why?"

  "Because I say so, OK?" Winter shot him a look, then returned his attention to Mackenzie. French began to argue again but then gave up and reached for the door handle. Better a cab than this farce.

  "Look." Winter stopped him.

  A sleek Mercedes convertible had pulled up beside Mackenzie. The bulky figure behind the wheel leaned over and opened the passenger door.

  "It's Talbot." Winter started the engine and began to pull out of the car park.

  "What now?" French was looking alarmed.

  "We follow them."

  "You're joking. You and another fucking pursuit? Nearly killed Dawn Ellis last year, didn't you?"

  "Who said anything about a pursuit?" Winter was enjoying himself at last, back in a plot he understood. "Twenty quid says they're going up to Waterlooville."

  "Waterlooville? Why would they do that?"

  "Valentine. Unfinished business. Bazza has some sorting out to do."

  "And we're going to be there? To watch it all? Terrific'

  French sat back, eyes closed, resigned now to whatever might happen next.

  The Mercedes headed out of the city. On the dual carriage way that fed rush-hour traffic onto the motorway, Talbot suddenly signalled left, ducking onto the slip road that led down to the ferry port and the northern suburbs.

  "He's clocked you," French said drily as they slowed for the roundabout. "I'll get out here. Bloody walk to the office."

  Spotting a gap in the oncoming swirl of cars, Winter accelerated hard.

  Moments later, they were back behind the Mercedes.

  "Subtle," French muttered. "You must have done this before."

  Half a mile later the Mercedes indicated left again, turning into a cul-de-sac that led to a scruffy industrial estate. Soon they were bumping over a potholed track, the back of the city's greyhound stadium on one side, a builder's yard on the other. Ahead, the last of the daylight silhouetted a line of ancient military vehicles, awaiting the wrecker's blowtorch.

  "The scrap yard Winter was talking to himself. "Maybe they've lifted Valentine already. Got him trussed up and waiting. Baz has done this before." He glanced across at French. "You with me?"

  French was fumbling for a cigarette. He wanted no part of this.

  The Mercedes had disappeared into the scrap yard Winter pulled into the shadow of the stadium and killed the engine. In the sudden silence came the sigh of the wind off the nearby harbour.

  "What now?" It was French. He couldn't find his lighter.

  "We get out. Take a look."

  "Back-up?"

  "Don't need it. You up for this or not?" Winter didn't bother to wait for an answer.

  With some reluctance, French joined him in the chilly twilight. They made their way into the scrap yard keeping to the fence on the left.

  Beyond a line of army surplus tanks, Winter could make out the whale-like shape of an abandoned submarine beside the scrap yard jetty — rusty, half submerged, a relic from some long-forgotten war.

  "Is there another exit?" French was looking for the Mercedes.

  Without warning, a pair of headlights pinned them against the fence.

  The Mercedes was parked twenty metres away, behind the nearest of the tanks. Clever. An engine purred into life. The car began to roll towards them.

  "Now what?" French had stopped.

  "Fuck knows." Winter kept walking.

  The Mercedes pulled into a tight turn, rolling to a stop beside Winter.

  The passenger window slid down, Mackenzie's face shadowed against the glow of the dashboard. Winter looked down at him, then stepped backwards as Mackenzie opened the door. For a moment, neither man said a word. Then Mackenzie beckoned him closer.

  "You kill me, you guys," he said. "You think I'm really stupid, don't you? Really thick?"

  Winter could smell the gum on his breath. Spearmint.

  "He's probably at home, Baz. Tucked up again. Celebrating."

  "You took his motor apart?"

  "Of course."

  "And?"

  "Clean as a whistle."

  "What a fucking surprise. Don't you cunts ever learn?"

  There was a long silence, then a brief flare in the darkness beside the fence. Danny French had evidently found his lighter.

  Mackenzie hadn't finished. He had something to get off his chest, something important, and now was the time.

  "You know what it boils down to in the end?" he said. "Business.

  That's all it is. Just business. You're telling me Valentine's spent the last twenty years knob bing Mist, I believe you. You think any of that makes any difference, you're out of your fucking mind. And you know why? Because I didn't get this far to blow it all over a dog like Mist. Valentine's history, mush. I'll pension him off. He gets Mist for free. Big fucking deal." He paused. "You got all that? Only it might be time for your twat friends in Tumbril to wise up. This game's bigger than you think. In fact it's bigger than anyone thinks." He offered Winter a sudden grin. "Give me a bell sometime if you're desperate. See if we can't work something out… eh?"

  Epilogue

  THURSDAY, 24 APRIL 2003

  The inquest on the death of Daniel Kelly took place at the end of April. With three weeks advance warning and Tumbril quietly laid to rest, Eadie and Faraday took a brief holiday in northern Spain, returning a couple of days before the inquest convened.

  Martin Eckersley, the coroner, met Eadie in the magistrates court.

  "You look amazing," he said. "Years younger."

  "Thanks, Martin."

  "I mean it." He produced a video cassette from his briefcase. "I looked at this a couple of nights ago. I understand it now.
"

  "What?"

  "All the fuss in the press. Didn't spare the details, did you?"

  "Never. You're still going to use some of the rushes in there?" Eadie nodded down the hall towards the Coroner's Court.

  "Definitely. I'm using the sequence you sent with the finished video.

  The lad injecting then stumbling off to bed."

  "You're sure that's enough?"

  "That's all that's germane. We're here to establish the facts, Eadie."

  He patted her on the arm. "The clever stuff is down to you."

  Eadie went off in search of coffee to kill the time before the inquest was due to begin. She'd given the News a copy of the video, and to her delight they'd turned the resulting controversy into a two-page feature. The health educationalists were outraged, as were many of the specialist agencies in the drugs field. Pictures as unsparing as these, they warned, might easily do watching kids real harm. Many teachers and parents, on the other hand, couldn't wait to sit their charges down in front of a TV. Here, for once, was the unvarnished truth.

  Of Bazza Mackenzie, mercifully, there was no mention in the News feature. Eadie had kept Mackenzie's financial contribution towards the project to herself, and she and Faraday had celebrated when J-J's CID file was closed after the CPS ruled the interview at Central inadmissible. Free from police bail, J-J had decided to accept Eadie's invitation to join Ambrym full time and develop a small library of, as she put it, in-your-face social documentaries. J-J's editing work on the anti-war video had shown every sign of opening a number of doors in London post-production houses, but in the end he'd decided to stay in Portsmouth.

  And Bazza himself? Eadie filled a plastic cup with coffee from the machine and made her way back towards the Coroner's Court. According to Faraday, Mackenzie was expanding his interests abroad, chiefly in Dubai and the Costa del Sol. A planning application had been lodged for a new extension to the family home in Craneswater and there was talk in certain quarters of the city that Bazza had designs on one of the sea forts off Southsea Beach. The latter rumour, said Faraday, had proved to be baseless, but Mackenzie's new management team at the Solent Palace were giving the hotel an ambitious makeover. To mark the official reopening, they'd put in an extremely competitive bid to host the CID midsummer ball.

  The inquest started at eleven o'clock with a series of witnesses summoned to plot the course of Daniel Kelly's final hours. Eadie herself described the taped interview and Daniel's growing distress as the minutes ticked away without any sign of the expected delivery. When it came to the moment when he retreated to the kitchen to at last prepare his fix, she kept the details to a minimum, knowing that Eckersley planned to show the video sequence later.

  Next into the witness box was Daniel's sometime girlfriend and ex-flat mate Sarah, who'd discovered his body. Then came the attending paramedic, followed by a uniformed PC and the duty CID officer, Dawn Ellis. The pathologist read from her report on the outcome of the post-mortem, noting the presence of quantities of unusually pure heroin in the contents of Daniel's stomach. Death, she said, had been caused by asphyxia following the in gestation of vomit.

  Eckersley, as Coroner, brought the proceedings to an end with a carefully delivered summing-up. The bulk of his comments, offered in sympathy rather than judgement, were directed to Daniel Kelly's father, who'd sat motionless throughout the proceedings, hunched in a nicely cut cashmere overcoat. Daniel's death, said Eckersley, was a tragedy in itself and a warning to us all. Drugs and desperation had killed him. It was, in an exact sense, the total waste of a life. Daniel had misjudged the strength of that final wrap and Eckersley had no hesitation in returning a verdict of Accidental Death.

  In conclusion, with a brief word of gratitude to Eadie, Eckersley announced his intention of showing the final few minutes of Daniel Kelly's conscious life, part of a new video destined for the nation's classrooms. Here, he said, was a tiny flicker of hope at the end of a sad, sad story.

  The lights in the court were dimmed. The pictures began to roll. A quivering needle searched for a vein. In the gloom Eadie could see Daniel's father, stony-faced, staring at the screen. The plunger eased the muddy brown liquid into Daniel's arm. Moments later, he was loosening the tourniquet, slack-jawed, moist-lipped, happy, feeling his way out of the kitchen, across the lounge, wanting nothing but oblivion.

  As the camera lingered at his son's bedroom door, Eadie was still watching Daniel's father. Daniel had collapsed on the bed, plucking feebly at the duvet. The shot slowly tightened on the face on the pillow. There was a flicker of movement, a tiny nerve beneath an eye.

  Then the big face rolled to the left, directly towards the watching camera. Daniel was smiling. Eadie saw his father's head tip back in despair. His eyes closed. He took a deep breath.

  Then the screen cut to black.

  Later that same day, early evening, Faraday found himself in the Southsea branch of Waitrose. He joined the shortest of the queues at the checkout, wondering if he had time to fit in a visit to Nick Hayder up at the QA. On the point of unloading his basket at the till, he felt a tug on his arm. It was Harry Wayte.

  "Joe," he said amiably. "Long time."

  "Harry." Faraday offered a nod. "How's tricks?"

  "Fine. Finally jacked it in last week."

  "Jacked what in?"

  "The job. Bunch of us had a few bevvies at a pub over in Fareham.

  Would have dropped you an invite but… No offence."

  Faraday studied Wayte for a moment. To the best of his knowledge, Professional Standards were still pursuing an enquiry, though he was woolly about the details.

  "My brief says they're wasting their time." Wayte could read his mind.

  "Can't find anything to tie me to Bazza. Not a shred, Joe. Not a phone call. Not an e-mail. Not a penny I can't account for. Not a single, fucking dicky bird. Look." He nodded at the waiting checkout assistant. "You're pissing her off, too."

  Minutes later, in the car park, Faraday was finishing a call on his mobile when he caught sight of Wayte emerging from the supermarket.

  With his flapping raincoat and bulging carrier bags, he looked an old man already. He crossed the tarmac and paused behind a new-looking BMW convertible while he fumbled for his key.

  Faraday pocketed his mobile and stirred the Mondeo into life.

  Slipping the clutch, he eased the car forward. Wayte was loading the boot of the BMW with litre bottles of German lager. Faraday paused beside him. The car was blue with a Play Up Pompey sticker on the back.

  Wayte glanced up. Faraday was still gazing at the Pompey sticker.

  "Nice motor, Harry. Must have cost a bit."

  Wayte looked down at him, savouring this small moment of truth.

  "You're right," he said at last. "It did."

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