Cut To Black

by Hurley, Graham

  As the images came and went, Eadie realised that J-J had a real talent for cutting to the meat of an event like this. Maybe it was the fact that he was never distracted by the soundtrack. Maybe the media gurus were right when they insisted that TV and film had an overwhelmingly visual logic. Whatever the explanation it didn’t matter because Eadie could sense already that footage like this, inter cut with the other material, could play to any audience in the world. This was the true Esperanto of moral outrage, a torrent of visceral images that would relocate the business of war to where it truly belonged. No longer a pain-free crusade peddled to the voters on the back of half-baked intelligence, but real babies, everyone’s flesh and blood, blown apart in the name of freedom.

  J-J got to the end of the out-takes from the demo. Some of Eadie’s passion seemed to have rubbed off on him and he grinned up at her when she gave him a hug. Funny, she thought. Show J-J a real-life tragedy unfolding in front of his eyes, and he doesn’t want to know.

  Multiply that single death a thousand-fold, and he can’t wait to get stuck in.

  “Al Jazeera?” she signed.

  “Nothing yet.” He fingered his watch, then shrugged.

  Early afternoon, the McDonald’s on the turn-off beside the MZ7 was packed. Faraday spotted Wallace and his handler in the far corner by the window. Wallace had commandeered a four-seat table and was tucking into a treble cheeseburger with a brimming cone of fries.

  The handler was a DS, Terry McNaughton, who had served under Faraday for six busy months at Highland Road, a tall, relaxed-looking thirty-year-old with a smile that could open any door. Two years later, he’d swapped the Top Man suits for jeans and a dark blue button-down shirt.

  The moment he saw Faraday, he got to his feet and left the table. Wallace followed, abandoning the burger but hanging on to the fries.

  “Let’s do it in the car.” McNaughton nodded towards the exit doors. “This is mad.”

  McNaughton’s Golf was parked next to the fence. Faraday got into the back, making space for himself amongst a litter of scuba magazines. A travel brochure caught his eye, a specialist company he’d never heard of.

  “Galapagos, boss.” McNaughton had twisted himself round in the driver’s seat. “Three weeks in May for two and a half grand. Ten days diving guaranteed. Turtle heaven.” He paused. “You OK, sir?”

  “Me?” Faraday looked at him in surprise.

  “Yeah… It’s just you look…” He shook his head, embarrassed now. “Forget it.” He glanced across at Wallace. “Yer man here’s got some news.”

  Wallace offered Faraday a chip.

  “He phoned up this morning, first thing, Mackenzie. Gave me the name of a hotel, the Solent Palace.”

  “When?”

  “Sunday. He wants to buy me lunch. Thinks I’m coming down from London.”

  “Time?”

  “Half twelve in the Vanguard Bar.”

  “But you’re definitely eating as well?”

  “That’s what he’s saying. Apparently there’s a two-for-one offer on all month. It’s a car very He thinks I’ll love it. Real food, mush. None of yer nouvelle muck.” The Pompey accent drew a grin from McNaughton.

  Faraday made a note. The Solent Palace was one of the bigger hotels on the seafront a Victorian pile in red brick with sensational views across the Common towards the Isle of Wight. The last time Faraday had been there was a year or so back, a formal dinner for a visiting police chief and his team from Caen. The food had been appalling, though the French, to their credit, hadn’t turned a hair.

  “The restaurant’s at the front on the first floor,” Faraday said. “How do we want to play this?”

  “That’s down to you, your call.” Wallace finished the last chip and wiped his fingers on a towel he’d found in the foot well “This car’s a doss, Terry. What do you do, kip in it?”

  “Only when my luck’s in.” He was still looking at Faraday. “What are we doing for back-up, sir?”

  “There isn’t any. Or not much.”

  “You’re serious?” McNaughton was responsible for Wallace’s physical safety.

  “Yes.” Faraday nodded. “My boss is paranoid about security. Doesn’t want to risk it.”

  “Risk what?”

  “Compromising the operation. He thinks we’re half-blown already and he’s probably right.”

  “Tomorrow, you mean? The meet with Mackenzie?”

  “No. The rest of it. Apparently, my lot plotted a hard stop back before Christmas. Should have netted a load of cocaine but they found nothing. That’s why he’s kept tomorrow so tight.”

  “Thank fuck for that.”

  “Exactly. The downside is back-up. I gather he’s thinking himself, me, and you.”

  “In the hotel?”

  “Probably not. I’ll recce the place tomorrow, but there’s no way Mackenzie would have chosen it unless he knew the management, which means there’s no way we can install cameras. Mackenzie’s plugged in everywhere, as you know.” Faraday was drawing a diagram on his notepad. “My guess is a couple of cars across the road, line of sight from the restaurant, say a hundred metres max if we get there early.”

  “He wants a transmitter?”

  “Plus a recorder. Both ends.”

  “That’s no problem. We’ve got a dinky little Nagra in on appro, recorder transmitter all one unit. Plus a receiver recorder for one of the cars, plus the Olympus for stills, and we’ve cracked it.” He frowned. “Doesn’t solve the back-up, though.”

  “Don’t worry.” Wallace was watching a pretty young mother steering her infant daughter towards a nearby sports car. “Worst that can happen, he shakes me down. I’m Jack the Lad, never go anywhere without a wire.”

  “You think he’ll buy that?”

  “Haven’t a clue, but you just keep talking, don’t you?” The young mum was bending over the sports car, strapping her daughter into a child seat. “What happens if he changes his mind about the hotel? Rings me with another r/v couple of minutes before the off?”

  “You bell us.”

  “And what if we meet at this place and he carts me off elsewhere?”

  “We follow. And you keep talking.”

  “OK.” He shrugged. “Sounds sweet to me.”

  The mother was climbing into the sports car now, smoothing down her skirt as she shot Wallace a smile. Faraday wanted to know what else Mackenzie had said on the phone.

  “He was fine. Just said he wasn’t fucking me around.”

  “What did that mean?”

  “He meant it was worth my while to make the trip down. Offered to show me the sights, too, if I was arsed.”

  “What sights?” McNaughton started to laugh.

  “He didn’t say.” Wallace ignored McNaughton. “As far as I’m concerned, the story’s simple. I’ve got a thousand deals on the go and the last thing I’m up for is half the afternoon poking round the Victory. He knows that. I’ve told him. Baz, I said, it’s a quick bite and you have your say. Then I’m back to town. That’s one good reason we’ll be staying at the hotel. If he starts to fuck around, I’m out of there.”

  “It’s Baz, is it?”

  “Yeah, has been the last couple of calls. Old mates, we are. Same game.”

  “You mean that?” Faraday at last felt his spirits begin to rise.

  “Too right. The bloke’s sharp as a tack. You can tell. Funny, too. He doesn’t buy all the tosh about shopping developments in the Gulf for a moment, probably never has. As far as he’s concerned, I’m the opposition. And we’re not just talking Spit Bank.”

  “You think he’ll come across with an offer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Money?”

  “Maybe, though I doubt it. These blokes hate parting with dosh. If there’s a better way, he’ll find it.”

  “Threats?”

  “No, he’ll like to think he’s classier than that.”

  “What then?”

  “Dunno.” He flashed Faraday a sudden smile. “
Stay tuned, eh?”

  It was Cathy Lamb’s decision to evacuate Dave Pullen to what she called ‘a place of safety’. Between them, Winter and Suttle cut through the cable ties, threw Pullen a T-shirt and a pair of filthy jeans, and pushed him towards the bathroom to clean himself up. As soon as two other members of the squad had driven down from Kingston Crescent to babysit the flat in case the Scousers turned up, Winter and Suttle would escort Pullen to Central police station where, Winter explained, the Custody Sergeant had volunteered an empty cell.

  The two DCs turned up shortly after two. Winter briefed them in the curtained lounge. Shortly afterwards, as he and Suttle stepped out into the gloom of the upstairs landing with Pullen, Winter heard a yell from one of the DCs. Five seconds in Pullen’s bedroom had wrecked his entire afternoon.

  “There’s bleach in the kitchen cupboard,” Winter shouted back. “We might be some time.”

  Out on the street, it dawned on Pullen that Winter meant it about Central.

  “No way,” he said, starting to struggle free.

  Winter gave him a look, told him it was in his own best interests. Until the Scousers were off the plot, he should resign himself to a little protective custody. When Pullen refused to get in the car, Winter arrested him.

  “Why?”

  “Suspicion of kidnap and assault. Bloody do as you’re told.” He told Suttle to fetch the handcuffs from the glove box then bundled Pullen into the back of the car and locked the doors.

  Central police station lies beside the city’s magistrates court. Winter found a space in the public car park, turned off the engine, then wound down his window an inch.

  “How much of a wash did you have then, Dave?” He was eyeing Pullen in the rear-view mirror. “Only some of our blokes in the station are really particular.”

  “Fuck off.”

  A gaggle of university students sauntered past, kicking at a stray can. Suttle watched them, saying nothing, aware that he hadn’t a clue what might happen next. In situations like these, as he was beginning to discover, Winter made up the rules as he went along.

  Winter found the release catch on the driver’s seat and pushed it back, making himself more comfortable. Pullen yelped as the bottom of the seat caught him on the ankles, then he twisted sideways in the back.

  “That fucking hurt.”

  “Yeah?” Winter reached up, adjusting the mirror until he found

  Pullen’s ravaged face again. “Here’s the deal, Dave.” He nodded towards the nearby police station. “Either we take you in there, do the paperwork, book you in, sort you out a lawyer, all that crap, or we have a little chat out here, just the three of us.”

  “I done nothing.”

  “Wrong, Dave. You done Trudy.”

  “Who says?”

  “Trude does. As you well know.”

  “How’s that, then?”

  “Because Bazza would have told you. Not face to face, maybe, but good as. Do I have to spell this out, Dave? Or do we think Bazza’s mates came round to your place to talk football?”

  Pullen brooded for a moment.

  “You got no proof,” he said at last.

  “Wrong again, Dave. We’ve got a statement.”

  “Who from?”

  “Young Trudy. Am I right, James?”

  Suttle nodded. He was beginning to get the drift.

  “Dead right, mate.” Suttle glanced over his shoulder at Pullen. “No more freebies from Trude, Dave. You’ve put her off billiards for life.”

  “What she say, then?”

  “She said she was having a little chat with some Scouse lads down Gunwharf. She said you got the hump and dragged her off. She said you smacked her around a bit in the car, then took a billiard cue to her once there was no way she could do anything about it. She also said you were pissed out of your head, but I think we’re starting to take that for granted.”

  “OK, Dave?” It was Winter again. “Are we getting there now?”

  Pullen said nothing. He’d shifted again, trying to get comfortable, and his head was back against the seat. At length, he closed his eyes and mumbled something incomprehensible. Winter waited until the yellow eyes opened again, then gave him a smile.

  “Like I said, Dave. We can either put you through a couple of interviews and bang you up for the weekend pending a kidnap charge, or…” He fingered the steering wheel.

  “Or what? What’s the deal?”

  “You tell us one or two things about Bazza.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why he’s so touchy about young Trude.”

  “No way.”

  “Really?” Winter kept eye contact in the mirror for a moment or two. Then he sighed. “Kidnap’s a serious offence, Dave. We can put you in front of the magistrates on Monday and I’ll give you odds they’ll refuse bail. You know the remand wing at Winchester? Bazza’s mates practically run the place. I’d give it a couple of days, max.”

  “Couple of days how?”

  “Use your imagination, Dave. You know those big urns they use for boiling water in the canteen? They put sugar in, sticks better when they want to make a point. But then I expect you’d know that already, the time you’ve done.”

  Pullen shook his head, not wanting to listen. A dustbin lorry growled past, two pink balloons attached to the back. Finally Pullen stirred. He appeared to have come to some kind of conclusion.

  “What’s in it for me, then?”

  “We take you up to the QA for a proper check, then we find you a nice hotel for a couple of nights. Stick a bottle of Scotch in the fridge.”

  “And after that?”

  “You go back home. Get the Hoover out. If the Scousers come round at all, they’ll do it in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “You’re serious about staking the place out?” “Fraid so, Dave. Part of our Safer City Initiative. So … tell me about Bazza. Pretend we know nothing.”

  “Bazza and Trude?”

  “That’s right.”

  Pullen nodded, still not quite convinced, then a resigned shake of the head told Winter he was home and dry. Thanks to Cathy Lamb, there was a room already booked in the Travel Inn on the seafront All Pullen had to do now was earn it.

  “Trude’s Bazza’s daughter,” he mumbled.

  “How do you know?”

  “Bazza told me. Years ago.”

  “So why doesn’t Trude know?”

  “He’s never got round to telling her. Thinks it might get complicated. He loves her and everything, looks out for her, but he doesn’t want any legal hassle. Having a kid of his own, like.”

  “You mean Esme?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the missus? Marie? Does she know about Trudy?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “And Trude?” It was Suttle this time. “Where’s she in all this?”

  “Trude’s off the planet. She’s got a list of dads as long as your arm. Mother like Mist, you takes your pick. That’s why I felt sorry for her.”

  “Trude? You felt sorry for her? Fuck, I’d hate to be someone you didn’t like.”

  “You don’t understand, son.”

  “You’re fucking right, I don’t understand. You’re an arse hole Pullen. Maybe it’s time you picked on someone your own size. How about me for starters?” Suttle lunged at him, ignoring Winter’s restraining hand. Pullen had retreated to the far corner of the back seat.

  “See, Dave?” Winter was laughing. “See the effect you have on people? My mate here, Jimmy, thinks you cocked it up with Trude. And I’ll tell you something else: Bazza does too. Only thing that puzzles me is why Baz ever let you near his precious daughter in the first place. Is he blind or something? Doesn’t he know you’re a scumbag?”

  “We were good mates, me and Baz.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Same team, wasn’t it? Only that was when you could still put one foot in front of the other.”

  “I was fucking useful.”

  “I know you were, Dave. I even watch
ed you a couple of Sundays when I’d got nothing better to do. You were in a different class. Play your cards right, knock the charlie and all that booze on the head, and you could have turned pro. But it didn’t happen, did it, Dave? And you know what that makes you? One sad bastard. You’re right, couple of years ago Bazza thought the world of you. Now he’s thrown you to the dogs.”

  “Yeah.” Suttle nodded. “And about fucking time too.”

  Pullen didn’t want to know. He was squirming around in the back, trying to ease the bite of the handcuffs. Winter watched him for a moment or two, not bothering to hide his disgust. Then he readjusted his seat and began to toy with the car keys.

  “One last question, Dave. What’s with Bazza and Valentine?”

  “They’re mates.”

  “I know that. I meant with Trudy. Did Bazza know Trude was living with Valentine?”

  “Of course he did.”

  “And he thought Valentine was shagging her?”

  “No way.”

  “No way? How does that work?”

  Pullen’s eyes found Winter’s in the mirror, the look of a man who knows he’s gone too far but can’t do much about it.

  “He warned him off,” he said at last. “Told him he’d break his legs if he laid a finger on her.”

  “That personal?”

  “Yeah.” Pullen closed his eyes again. “You know fucking Bazza.”

  Willard sat at his desk in the Major Crimes suite, waiting for Prebble to pick up his extension. According to Joyce, who’d answered Willard’s call to Tumbril HQ, the young accountant was busy putting another thousand documents through the photocopier. She’d given him a shout and told him the chief was on the line, top priority. He responded well to pressure, she said, and would doubtless be back in seconds.

  Willard, who’d taken a while to tune in to Joyce’s sense of humour, scribbled himself a note about an extension to Prebble’s contract. Once they had Mackenzie in the bag, the accountant would be working flat out preparing the paperwork for the CPS file. Willard also foresaw endless conferences with the Assset Recovery Agency, the new government body charged with stripping major criminals of their ill-gotten gains. This would be Tumbril’s real harvest, the seizure of millions of pounds’ worth of property, business holdings, cars and sundry other goodies which Mackenzie had accumulated over the last decade. Prebble had spent the best part of a year sorting out the artful chaos Mackenzie had created around himself, and it would be Willard’s pleasure to watch dusk fall on the city’s biggest criminal. Up like a rocket, he thought. Down like a stick.