Cut To Black

by Hurley, Graham

  Mackenzie dismissed the question with a shrug.

  “Silly girl, Mist. Can’t take a joke. Shame, really.” He looked morose for a moment, then visibly brightened. “Don’t want a nice harbour side apartment, do you? Yours for seven hundred grand.”

  “You’ve put it on the market?” Winter feigned amazement.

  “Yeah. Wait a week, and you’ll be looking at seven fifty. View like that, they’ll be queuing for it.”

  “And Trudy?”

  Trude’ll be OK. She’s a survivor, that girl. Has to be, living with Mist.”

  “I thought she was tucked up with Mike Valentine?”

  “No way. Mike’s got a bob or two, saw her right, but he’s old, isn’t he? Trude’s a kid. Doesn’t want some wrinkly like Mike.”

  “Or us.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Or Dave Pullen.”

  Mackenzie didn’t answer. The temperature in the room seemed to plunge. After all the joshing, all the catching-up, Winter had bent to Mackenzie’s train set and thrown the points.

  Mackenzie was staring at Winter. In certain moods, he had the blackest eyes.

  “Is that what this is about, then? Mr. Dave fucking Pullen?”

  “Partly, yes.”

  “Well don’t worry about that arse-wipe. He’s taken care of.”

  “Since when?” Winter was genuinely surprised.

  “Since’ Mackenzie glanced at his Rolex ‘about an hour ago. What else do you want to know?”

  Winter was eyeing the bottle. Glenfiddich wasn’t quite his favourite malt but under circumstances like these it would certainly do. He splashed a generous measure into his glass and swirled it round. With people like Mackenzie, it sometimes paid to keep them waiting.

  “My bosses have got this thing about law and disorder,” he said at last. “Keeping it private, keeping it out of sight, is one thing. What Chris Talbot did at the railway station was something else.”

  “Like what?

  “Like stupid. And like unnecessary.”

  “Says you.”

  “Says my bosses. And they’ve got a point, too. If you can’t run a business without pulling those kinds of strokes, then maybe you ought to let someone else have a go.”

  Mackenzie hated criticism. With the sole exception of his wife, people never talked to him like this. He’d visibly stiffened behind the desk. All the chumminess, all the little flurries of wit, had gone. Winter, aware that this conversation had to deliver some kind of truce, tried to coax a smile.

  “Think of me as the poor fucker in no-man’s-land,” he began. “I’m waiving the book of rules. I’m here to tell you to cool it. Call off the dogs, ignore the Scousers, and it’ll be business as usual.”

  “Rules bollocks.” Mackenzie was angry now. “If your bosses are so fucking keen on business as usual, then how come they’re trying to put me away? Talking to the bank? To my accountant? Sticking blokes across the road in clapped-out Fiestas?” He paused for long enough to let Winter raise an eyebrow. “You think I don’t know about all that shit? Operation Tumbril? Three men and a dog banged up on Whale Island? You go back and tell them they haven’t got a prayer. Not a fucking prayer. And you know why? Because I can afford the kind of advice they’d only ever dream about. And you know something else?” He jabbed a finger at the photos on the cork board. “That advice is kosher, legit, paid-for. Problem with you blokes is you’re either skint or looking the wrong way when the big deals go down.” He was on the edge of his chair now, leaning forward across the desk. “A little word in your ear, my friend. Watch the press.”

  “The local press?”

  “Absolutely. Give it a couple of days and we might be able to put this conversation in perspective. Big announcement. Major acquisition. Hundreds of grand.” He nodded, belligerent, proud of himself. “You know what really pisses me off about you lot? A bloke comes along and works his arse off for this city, pours in millions, one-man fucking regeneration agency for that poxy Osborne Road, and what does he get for his troubles? Operation fucking Tumbril. How’s that for gratitude, then? No wonder this city’s halfway down the khazi.”

  Winter tried to hide his smile. Not only did Mackenzie believe all this stuff but most of it was probably true. Add a recently purchased kitchen equipment shop to his cafe-bars and tanning salons, and this man was transforming Osborne Road. Drugs money or otherwise, the heart of Southsea would be shabbier without the likes of Bazza Mackenzie.

  “Just think about it,” Winter said quietly. “That’s all we’re saying.”

  “What’s this “we”, then? They ask you to come here?”

  “They?”

  “Those fucking bosses of yours.”

  “Of course they didn’t. It’s called initiative. Went out the window years ago.”

  “And if they knew you were here?”

  “Major bollocking. Either that, or another form to fill in. Listen, Baz, I’m just telling you, marking your card. Chasing Scouse kids round the city just isn’t worth the hassle. Some people hate the sight of blood. You’d be amazed.”

  “That’s not the point. What else am I supposed to do? Dial treble nine? Come running to you lot? My line of work, it’s just that.”

  “Just what?”

  “Business. Blokes try and muscle in, we give them a hiding. Same with Pullen. Twat like him messes with Trude, he knows exactly what to expect. That’s the thing about us.” The laugh again, abrupt, challenging. “We’re dead straight. What you see is what you get.”

  Mackenzie nodded towards the door. The gesture was Winter’s cue to leave. Back on his feet, he drained the last of the malt and buttoned his coat. Mackenzie came round the desk. Close to, Winter suspected he’d begun to use blond tint on his hair.

  “Another thing about young Trude.” Mackenzie wasn’t smiling.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t even think about it, OK?”

  “Me?”

  “Any of you guys.”

  Winter nodded, giving the threat due respect, then paused beside the door.

  “One thing I need to know, Baz.” He nodded at the curtained window.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why green gels?”

  “Ah…” Mackenzie touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Colour of envy, mate.”

  Trudy lay on her side, her head supported on her elbow, her hair tumbling over Suttle’s face.

  “Going to sleep on me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You were brilliant. You’re allowed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it.” She wetted her forefinger and traced a love heart across his naked chest. “What about me, then. OK, was I?”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “Bastard.” She leaned over him and retrieved a copy of FHM from the carpet beside the bed. “What’s this, then?”

  Suttle opened one eye and found himself looking at a familiar photo spread of Jennifer Lopez.

  “Forget it,” he mumbled. “You’d fuck her out of sight.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Definitely. Except she’s the one with the money.” He snatched at the magazine, then tossed it across the tiny bedroom. “There’s half a bottle of white in the fridge, if you fancy it.”

  “You get it.”

  “You’re closest.”

  There was a stir of cold air as she pulled back the covers. Suttle heard the soft pad of her footsteps on the stairs and the distinctive click as she opened the fridge door. Seconds later, she was back in beside him. The way her flesh goose pimpled reminded him of the night they’d found her trussed to the bed in Bystock Road.

  “You first.” She’d only found one glass.

  “No, you.”

  He watched her sipping the wine and realised he hadn’t been so happy for months. It can’t be this simple, he kept telling himself. This easy.

  She offered him the glass. When he reached out for it, she shook her head and dipped a finger before slipping it into his mouth. H
e sucked it for a moment, then asked for more. She smiled at him in the half darkness and Suttle caught the chink of glass as she lodged the glass beside the bottle on the cluttered bedside table.

  “I meant more wine.”

  “I know you did.”

  “You’re outrageous.”

  “Yeah?” She was straddling him now, her breath warm on his face. “Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Just say I had lots of money. Pots of it.”

  “And?”

  “Would you come away with me? Seriously, would you?”

  “Come away where?”

  “Dunno.” She nuzzled his cheek for a moment and then began to lick his ear. “Wherever you like, really. Abroad? America? Thailand? Oz? Don’t care.”

  “You mean for a holiday?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Not a holiday?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just you and me.”

  Suttle gazed up at her for a moment and then tried to struggle free, but Trudy was stronger than she looked.

  “I’ve got you.” She began to giggle. “And you still haven’t answered the question.”

  Faraday was on the way to Eadie Sykes’s apartment when his mobile began to chirp. It was Willard. Faraday pulled the Mondeo into a parking space on the seafront and killed the engine.

  “You called,” Willard grunted. “If it’s about that boy of yours, forget it.”

  “Forget what, sir?”

  “Whatever you were going to tell me. As I understood it, no charges have been laid. Police bail pending further inquiries. Am I right?”

  “Yes, but the point is…”

  “Wrong, Joe. There is no point. Nothing has changed unless you’re telling me you want out, and even then you’d have to have a bloody good excuse.” He paused. “As I understand it, there’s fuck-all evidence against the boy, not when it comes to a serious charge. Anything else?”

  Faraday stared into the darkness beyond the promenade. A late car ferry was heading out towards the Isle of Wight, leaving a long, white tail of churning water. Just how could he voice the thousand and one questions J-J had left in his own wake? About gullibility? About other people taking advantage? And most important of all about the sudden gap that had opened up between father and son? None of these issues was of the remotest relevance to Tumbril, and Willard doubtless knew it.

  “Nothing else, sir.”

  “Good. Heard from Wallace yet?”

  “No. I left a message.”

  “Bell me when he rings. Doesn’t matter how late.”

  “Of course.”

  Minutes later, he let himself into Eadie’s apartment building. Up on the third floor, the door to her flat was open, and Faraday caught the breathless tones of the BBC newscaster while he was still on the stairs. Coalition forces were attacking the Iraqi port of Umm Qasr. Preliminary reports from the advancing columns of armour suggested that the city’s defenders were on the point of surrender. Tony Blair, meanwhile, had returned from an EU summit to stiffen the nation’s resolve.

  Faraday walked into the flat. Eadie was stretched on the sofa, engrossed in the news report, the remains of a takeout curry on a tray on her lap. After a while, Faraday moved into her eye line

  “Hi.” She barely looked up.

  “Hi.” Faraday stared down at her. He’d rarely felt angrier. “Are we going to talk or shall I come back later?”

  “Give me a minute, OK?” She nodded at the screen. “Then you can get it all off your chest.”

  “No.” Faraday shook his head and reached for the zapper. When he couldn’t find the mute button, he turned the whole set off. Eadie was about to react, then had second thoughts. There were a couple of tinnies in the fridge. Maybe, for the sake of his blood pressure, a cold Stella might be wise.

  Faraday ignored the suggestion.

  “You knew,” he said thickly. “You knew this morning and you didn’t tell me.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That the kid was dead.”

  “Ah… young Daniel.” She nodded. “My apologies. Mea fucking culpa.”

  “So is that it?” Faraday couldn’t believe his ears. “You step into this kid’s life, drag my son with you, tape the lad while he kills himself, and leave him to die? Endgame? Finito? Too bad?”

  “You’re being dramatic…”

  “Dramatic? The boy’s dead, Eadie. That’s big time. We cops sometimes call it murder. In fact, this afternoon they very nearly did.”

  “They?”

  “Yes, they. Thanks to you, I’ve just spent a couple of hours trying to keep my son out of the remand wing at Winchester prison. That might mean nothing to you but I’m telling you now it made a very big hole in my day.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? How do you know?”

  “J-J told me. There’s not a lot you can get into a text but I caught the drift.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said you tried to shut him up. You and a lawyer.”

  “He’s right. We did.”

  “And he said he thought that was bullshit. So he went right ahead and told them the way it had been.”

  “That’s right, too. Completely reckless.”

  “Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “So how come he’s still a free man?”

  “Christ knows. I’ve left guys in the cells for thirty-six hours on less evidence. That could have been J-J. Easily. Thanks to you.”

  There was a long silence. A lone car whined past outside. Finally, Eadie put her tray to one side.

  “I thought this was about Daniel Kelly?” she muttered. “Or is he division two compared to J-J?”

  “That’s cheap.”

  “Sure, and you’re being irrational. Listen Joe, you’re right. The kid’s dead. It happened to happen last night. Equally, it could have happened last week, or last month, or tomorrow, or fuck knows when. All I know is the thing was inevitable. He was a funeral on legs. I hate to say it but we’re not talking big surprise here.”

  “And that makes it OK? When you’ve supplied the gear?”

  “I didn’t supply the gear.”

  “No, but J-J did, or helped to, at least. And you know why? Because otherwise you wouldn’t have got your precious bloody interview. That’s called pressure. And in the end the pressure came from you.”

  “OK.” Eadie conceded the point with a nod. “So I believe in what I do. Does that put me in the wrong? When the kid would have scored in any case?”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You don’t? You think I’m making all this stuff up? You want to see the way he looked? The state of him? Be my guest. We’ll run the rushes again. Evidence, Joe. Pictures you can’t fucking dispute. If J-J hadn’t run the errand for him, he’d have found someone else. It’s called money, my love, and it’ll buy you anything.”

  “Don’t patronise me.”

  “I’m not. I’m pointing out the facts of life. You don’t believe me? OK, so here’s something else for that poor aching head of yours. What tells me we’ve taken the right decision, done the right thing, are those.”

  “What?”

  “Those.” She was pointing at the pile of video cassettes beside the TV. “I’ve told you. Poor bloody Daniel Kelly was a basket case. He’d lost it. He didn’t care any more. But the way things turned out we might at least be able to rescue something from the wreckage, offer some kind of hope for the future. Not Daniel’s but maybe other kids’, lots of other kids’. When you’ve calmed down you’re going to ask me whether I regret what happened last night but I’m telling you now the answer is no.” She looked up at him, weary now. “Can’t you see that?”

  “No, I can’t. But that’s not the point.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. The point is that you didn’t tell me.”

  “You’re right.” She nodded. “I didn’t. I knew, and you were in the flat when I took the call, and I didn’t pass the message on.”

  “Ex
actly.” He took a deep breath. “So explain to me why.”

  “You’re sounding like a cop.”

  “That’s because I am a cop. It’s what I do. But that makes it complicated, doesn’t it? Because I’m also a father. And I’m also…” he began to founder, gesturing at the space between them ‘.. . part of whatever this is.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “So what is this?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

  “No, seriously, if it all boils down to this morning, then we ought to get down to basics, strip the thing off a little. OK, I should have told you. For a thousand reasons, I owed you that news. But, hey, hands up,

  I didn’t pass it on. And why didn’t I pass it on? Because I knew that it would lead to this. Not tonight but this morning. And to tell you the truth, the absolute truth, I had more important things to sort out.”

  “Like what?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Try me.”

  “There’s no point.”

  “No point? See? You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Keeping it all to yourself. Keeping me at arm’s length. We’re supposed to be having a relationship here. I know it’s old fashioned but that involves just a little bit of trust. I’ve been here before, my love. If you won’t tell me about Daniel Kelly, and about whatever else, then I just might start thinking.”

  “You do that.”

  “Yeah…?” Faraday gazed down at her for a long moment, then turned away. The view from the window, for once, made absolutely no sense at all. Random lights. Lots of darkness. Then he sensed a movement behind him, felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Listen, Joe…” For once in her life, Eadie sounded unsure of herself.

  “Listen what?”

  “Haven’t we had good times?”

  “Of course we have.”

  “And isn’t that important?”

  “Yes.” Faraday nodded. “But good times are the easy bit. I’m just asking you to be honest with me.”

  “I’m sorry. I apologise.”

  Eadie slipped between him and the view, suddenly contrite. For a moment Faraday wasn’t at all sure if this wasn’t tactical, another puzzling little bend in their road, but when she nodded back towards the sofa he allowed himself to sit down. Some of the anger had boiled away and he was grateful when she returned with a Stella from the fridge.