Cut To Black

by Hurley, Graham

  “And the price?”

  “He’d got to 400,000.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “No. He said he couldn’t go another penny higher but he offered to sleep with me. That would take it up to half a million.”

  “Sleeping with Mackenzie’s worth a hundred grand?” Faraday began to laugh.

  “You can hear him on the tapes.” Willard was gazing out at the lights of Southsea. “Can you believe that? Mackenzie?

  “He’s funny,” Gisela said again. “I think he meant it as a joke.”

  Willard ignored this mild reproof. What was important just now was the presence of Wallace in the bidding. By upping the price to 900,000, he explained to Gisela, Tumbril had put the screws on Mackenzie.

  “Deep down, the guy’s unstable. Everyone knows it. What we need is a deadline. That’s where the survey comes in. Part of me says we agree to meet before Friday. He might just compromise himself to sort the whole thing out. Otherwise we leave it a week or so. Wallace gets the thumbs-up from the survey and makes a decision to go ahead. At that point, Mackenzie has to make a move. Either he tops the offer or gets rid of the opposition.”

  “You really think he’ll pay another half million?” Gisela was gazing out into the dark.

  “To be frank, no.”

  “Pity…”

  “Oh?” For the first time, Willard was on new ground. “Why’s that?”

  Gisela studied him a moment, the way you might assess a child’s preparedness for bad news, then she touched him lightly on the hand.

  “I’m afraid the story’s changed. I really do have to sell the place.” She smiled. “And 900,000 in cash would be more than acceptable.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Of course.” The smile faded. “Peter and I are divorcing.”

  Misty Gallagher was drunk by the time the cab dropped her off at the Indian Palace. Paul Winter had phoned her earlier, planning to drive down to Gunwharf and pay her a social call, but Misty was adamant that she’d had enough of the apartment. She and Trude had been at it since late afternoon. Another hour of that kind of abuse and she’d take a carving knife to her mouthy daughter.

  Winter had his usual table at the back of the restaurant. He’d been coming here for months now and he liked the people who ran it. He gave them all kinds of bullshit but they knew he was lonely and they treated him well. At forty-five, robbed of a wife you’d taken for granted, you appreciated that kind of courtesy.

  “Misty. Long time.”

  He got to his feet and guided her into the waiting chair. She was wearing a see-through black top over a pair of spray-on jeans. Unless Winter was bloody careful, the waiters would be selling tickets at the door.

  “Paul…” Her eyes were glassy. “They do wine here?”

  “Sure. White?”

  “Rose.”

  “Of course. Mateus OK?” He signalled towards the bar without waiting for an answer. When the waiter came over, he pointed to number 7 on the wine list. “And another Stella for me, son.” He turned back to Misty. She was trying to find a lighter for her cigarette. “How’s tricks, then, Mist? Still getting it?”

  “Fuck off. You know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?”

  “Me and Bazza.” She’d found the lighter. “Man’s a prick.”

  Winter did his best to look reproachful. It had been common knowledge for more than a year that Bazza Mackenzie had decided to trade Misty in for a newer model, but he’d somehow assumed that Misty would cope. Evidently not.

  “I caught him in Clockwork the other night with that Italian bitch. Had it out with him then and there.”

  Clockwork was the hottest of the late-night clubs down by South Parade pier, currently fashionable amongst the city’s more successful criminals. Misty, on the wrong end of a bottle of Moet, had found Bazza at the bar with the lovely Lucia and a bunch of his best mates. Robbed of the power of speech, Misty had ordered another bottle of Moet, hosed him down, and left him with the bill.

  “His mates loved it.” She had a smile on her face. “Told me I should have done it months ago.”

  Bazza, enraged, had pursued Misty onto the seafront Lucia had locked herself in the toilets and half the fucking town was in stitches. Didn’t Misty know that times had moved on? Didn’t she have any sense of style? Of occasion? These were strokes you just didn’t pull any more. Certainly not in public.

  “He sent the agent round next day.”

  “What agent?”

  “The estate agent. Bloke I even knew. Told me Baz had decided to put the flat on the market. That fucking day. Vacant possession. Can you believe that? After all the shit I’ve had to put up with?”

  Winter pulled a face. The wine had arrived and he steadied Misty’s glass as the waiter did the honours. Given the state of the woman, he estimated he had maybe half an hour to coax any sense out of her. Tops.

  “Tell me about Trude, Mist.”

  “What about her?”

  “We found her in a bit of a state last night. She might have told you.”

  “She tells me fucking nothing. Except what a cow I am. Can you imagine? That kind of language? Your own fucking daughter?”

  Winter reached out, closing his hand over hers. For once in his life he was serious.

  “Listen, Mist. We found her in a doss house in Fratton. Someone had given her a thumping and tied her to a bed. You wouldn’t have any idea who, would you?”

  “Thumping?” Misty was trying to make sense of the word. “My Trude?”

  “That’s right.” He watched Misty reach for the glass. “What do you know about Dave Pullen?”

  “He’s a shag. At it all the time. He’s a disgusting man.”

  “I know. So what’s Trude been doing with him? She’s a good-looking girl. Christ, Mist, she could have the pick of blokes her own age -decent blokes, bit of education even. What did she ever see in an ape like Pullen?”

  Misty blinked at him, the lightest touch on the brakes. She reached for the glass again, and emptied it.

  “Mist…?”

  “I dunno.”

  “But you must have known, must have wondered.”

  “Of course, yeah.” She nodded. “Of course I wondered.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know.” She tried to focus on another table across the restaurant, and then stifled a hiccough. “He’s an older guy,” she said at last. “They know how to listen sometimes, older guys. Bit of sympathy, bit of a shoulder, know what I mean?”

  Winter was watching her carefully, remembering Trudy at lunchtime in the Gumbo Parlour. Mother and daughter had fallen out, big time, and Trudy seemed to know exactly where to put the blame.

  Misty was splashing yet more Mateus into her glass. Winter hadn’t seen a bottle disappear so fast since the last time they met.

  “What happened to that nice motor dealer Trude used to live with?” he said at last. “Mike Valentine, wasn’t it? Up in Waterlooville?”

  “Pass.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know?”

  “I haven’t a clue. I’ve told you, I can’t get a word out of her. Who she gives it to is a mystery to me. Always has been.”

  “But she came back to live with you, Mist. And she did that because she must have fallen out with Valentine. There’s no way you didn’t ask her. I don’t believe it.”

  “Bollocks did I ask her. If you knew the first thing about Trude you’d know she keeps herself to herself. It was like living with a stranger, if you want the truth. Just a shame she hadn’t got anywhere else to go. Fucking gloom bag.”

  “She’s angry, Mist. Angry at you. Now why would that be?”

  “No idea. Ask her.”

  “I did.”

  “When?” The alarm in her eyes told Winter he was getting warm.

  “Lunchtime, Mist. Today.”

  “And what di
d she say?”

  “She didn’t. And she wouldn’t, my love, because she’s careful when she opens her mouth. Unlike her mum.”

  He held her eyes over the table. Alarm had given way to a cold fury. Misty got to her feet, clutched the table to steady herself, then yelled at the waiter. She wanted a taxi. She’d had enough of talking to this wanker. In fact she’d had enough of everything.

  Winter gazed up at her, wondering how far to take the rest of the conversation. Aqua would have a cab here in moments. Just time to take a punt or two.

  “Mike Valentine’s in deep with Bazza, Mist.” He leaned back in the chair. “Maybe shagging someone that close isn’t such a great idea.”

  “You mean Trude?”

  “No, love.” He offered her a matey smile. “I mean you.”

  It was gone eleven by the time Sarah made it round to the flat in Old Portsmouth. She’d spent the last couple of hours at the Students’ Union, celebrating the end of the first draft of her degree dissertation. There was still stuff to do, lots of stuff, but the shape of the thing was there and fifteen thousand plus on the word count deserved a couple of pints of cider.

  She kept Daniel’s spare keys in a special pocket in her day sack. She stepped in through the street door and made her way upstairs. Outside Daniel’s flat, she paused and knocked. This time of night, unless a miracle had happened, he’d be dead to the world, but it still felt more comfortable to announce her presence.

  When there was no answer she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open. The flat was in darkness, but the moment she switched on the light she saw that the furniture had been rearranged. This, she knew at once, was confirmation that the video crew had been round. The way the armchair had been positioned nice sense of depth behind the interviewee was exactly what she would have done.

  “Dan?”

  There was no response. She hesitated a moment, wondering whether to leave him to it. He’d be in bed by now, bound to be, and it might be better to come back tomorrow to find out how the taping had gone. With luck, the whole experience something new in his life might have given him a bit of a nudge. He might even have offered the kind of performance, the kind of analysis, she knew lay within him. That’s why the smack was such a tragedy. The guy had a brain. The guy was clever. She’d never met anyone so thoughtful, and so articulate.

  She began to turn to leave, then had second thoughts. His bedroom was down the corridor. She paused outside the open door. In the faint spill of light from the lounge, she could just make out the shape of his body, prone beneath the duvet. There was something else, too. A terrible smell.

  “Dan?”

  The smell was vomit. She knew it.

  “Dan? Are you OK?”

  Nothing. Her hand found the light switch beside the door. Daniel was lying on his back, his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. A thick stream of vomit had caked on his face, on the side of his neck, on his shoulder.

  “Dan?” Her voice began to falter. “Dan…?”

  Chapter 7

  THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 04.40

  The first mid-March London-bound train leaves Portsmouth and Southsea town station at 04.38. This particular morning, the trickle of early commuters included one of the city’s two MPs, a cheerfully resilient Lib Dem who never tired of pushing Portsmouth’s new image as the south coast’s must-visit heritage attraction.

  Pompey, he’d recently assured a visiting journalist from one of the broadsheet Sunday supplements, had at last shed its post-war reputation for poverty, planning mistakes, and limitless aggression. This was no longer the city where a shopping centre the Tricorn was annually voted Europe’s Ugliest Building. Neither were Friday nights infamous for sailor-bashing and huge helpings of recreational violence. On the contrary, thanks to inward investment and a forward-looking council, the city was fast acquiring a well-earned reputation for meshing the old and the new. The historic naval dockyard offered a world-class collection of antique warships. The harbour had been given a multi-million-pound refurb. And in the shape of the Spinnaker Tower, the new Gunwharf development would soon boast the tallest structure in southern England. Portsmouth, in short, was on the rise.

  The MP, already late for the 04.38, found himself amongst a gaggle of fellow passengers halted on the concourse by a line of Police Caution tape. Peering over the shoulder of a WPC, he watched two ambulance paramedics bending over a body slumped at the foot of one of the turnstile entries. The youth was wearing jeans and a red football shirt. There were livid splashes of blood around his scuffed trainers, and a brief glimpse of his face revealed the kind of damage you’d associate with a high-impact car smash. Only when the WPC moved, did the MP realise that one of the youth’s wrists was shackled to the turnstile by a pair of handcuffs.

  Pressed for details, the WPC did her best. The fire brigade were on their way to deal with the handcuffs. The paramedics were confident the young man would survive the trip to hospital. As so often with these incidents, the damage appeared worse than it probably was.

  “These incidents?” The MP had noticed a blood-soaked pillowslip on the concourse beside one of the kneeling paramedics. “What incidents?”

  “Can’t really say, sir.” The WPC was looking grim. “Except it’s getting worse.”

  Faraday awoke to an empty bed. He lay there for a moment, gazing up at the ceiling, tuning in to the cries of the early-morning seagulls. Living in the Bargemaster’s House beside Langstone Harbour, he could map the view from his window by a medley of different calls. The piping of red shanks and the bubbling call of a flock of oyster catchers would suggest low tide on the mud flats but Eadie’s seafront location lacked that kind of variety. A morning like this you had to put up with the angry squawk of black-headed gulls battling for their share of pavement debris from last night’s take-outs. From the birding point of view this was a serious disappointment but Faraday had enjoyed enough early mornings in this bedroom to draw a subtler conclusion. As a prelude to his working day, the clamour of warring scavengers was near-perfect.

  The crack between the curtains suggested it was barely dawn. Rolling over, he checked the bedside alarm clock. 06.03. From the nearby living room, came a low murmur from the television. BBC News 24 again, Faraday thought.

  Past midnight, with Eadie still working at her office, the news from the Gulf had finally driven him to bed. US and UK forces had been pounding the Iraqi port of Umm Qasr. Oil wells were blazing around Basra and there appeared to be every prospect of a counter-attack deploying Saddam’s ample supplies of chemical weapons. By now, God help us, the Americans would be fingering the nuclear button.

  Retrieving a towel from the carpet beside the bed, Faraday padded through to the living room. Eadie was kneeling in front of the television, wrapped in Faraday’s dressing gown, consulting a clipboard on her lap. Paused on the screen, a single juddering image, was a face Faraday didn’t recognise. Definitely not BBC News 24.

  “Tea?”

  Eadie spun round.

  “Shit.” She was grinning. “Watch this.”

  She glanced down at the clipboard, then zapped the video recorder into fast forward. Seconds later, Faraday was watching the same figure dragging himself along a badly lit hall. He disappeared briefly through a door at the end. By the time the camera caught up, he was clawing his way into bed. Eadie froze the image again.

  “There.”

  “Where?”

  Faraday followed her pointing finger as she touched the screen.

  “It’s an empty syringe,” She said. “Guy’s off the planet.”

  Faraday at last recognised the barrel of the syringe hanging from the bloodied forearm and as Eadie pressed the play button again he found himself drawn into what followed. There was a terrifying helplessness in the sight of this young man’s battle to capture the duvet on the floor. Time and again, he reached down for it. Time and again, he missed. Finally, he caught one corner, hauled it agonisingly up towards him, then barely half-covered gave up.


  “You found your junkie, then?”

  “Big time.”

  “Pleased?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “Lucky, eh?” Faraday was watching the eyes slowly close. “Got there just in time.”

  “You’re joking.” Eadie busied herself with the zapper again, putting the video into reverse until there was nothing on the screen but a bulging vein and the slow plunge of the needle. Eadie played the sequence twice. Faraday had never seen anything so graphic.

  “You were there.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And this is for real.”

  “Too right. Real is what I do.”

  He nodded, still rivetted to the screen. “What happens beforehand?”

  “I do an interview with him.”

  “Good?”

  “Better than good. Excellent. The guy was a gift, articulate, strung-out, totally blitzed. Watch this, and no kid in his right mind will go anywhere near drugs. Any drugs. Watch this, and you’d probably give up shandy. Are we whispering result here? Or is it just me?”

  “You said you did an interview with him.”

  “That’s right. Little me.”

  “So who was behind the camera?”

  “J-J.”

  “And the other stuff? Afterwards?”

  “Me. J-J wimped out. Couldn’t hack it. Major disappointment. Still,” her eyes returned to the screen, “I think I did OK. No?”

  Faraday didn’t answer. Only when he’d filled the kettle and found the milk did he feel confident enough to continue the conversation. Anger would get them nowhere. Facts first.

  “We’re talking heroin?”

  “Obviously.”

  “And you know where this stuff came from?”

  “Federal Express. Guy knocks on the door, you sign the little form, and, hey, it’s candy time.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “OK.” Eadie was laughing now. “You don’t have to sign the form.”

  “You’re telling me you were there when it was delivered?”

  “Of course. That’s why the interview was such a knockout. These people run on tram lines Four hours between fixes is comfortable. Anything over that, it starts to show. Six, seven hours, you start clucking. This guy?” She nodded towards the screen. “Clucking fit to bust. The moment that entry phone went off, he was down the stairs. You really think I’m going to ignore what followed? I couldn’t have scripted it better. Give me an actor and a million dollars and you wouldn’t get a result like that. People sense reality. They sit up and take notice. That’s the whole point.” She stared at him a moment, uncomprehending. “So what’s the problem, Joe? You find all this offensive?”