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 from 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.
Joyce came to the door on his second knock. She was wearing a loose pair of tracksuit bottoms and a pink crew-neck top. The kitchen door was open at the end of the little hall and Faraday caught the tang of frying garlic.
“Sheriff…” She beamed up at him. “Hey, nice surprise. Come in. You eaten at all. Only She frowned, looking down. “What the heck’s that?”
“It’s a warrant card, Joyce.”
“You think I don’t know who you are?” She looked up at him. “What is this?”
“Business, Joyce. We can do this two ways. We can have a chat and you can tell me what you know. Or’ he nodded beyond her ‘- I can just get on with it.”
“Get on with what?”
“Searching your house.”
“I vote for talking.” She stepped back. “You want a drink or anything, because sure as hell I do.”
Faraday settled for a cup of tea. Joyce opened a new bottle of Bailey’s. By the time the tea was brewed, she was on her second glass.
“I still don’t get it.” She reached for the milk jug. “You’re telling me you’ve got a list there. Little moi is top of the list? Is that it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But why? How come? What makes you think I’m interested in talking to a scumbag like Mackenzie when we’ve just spent a year trying to nail him to the fucking wall?”
“No one says you’ve been talking to Mackenzie. It doesn’t have to work like that.”
“It doesn’t, huh?” Her hand was shaking. Some of the milk slopped into the saucer. “So do us a favour, sheriff, just tell me how it does work.”
Faraday had never associated Joyce with anger before. Even when the pressures at Highland Road had made everyone else lose it, she had always stayed calm, the still centre at the very heart of the storm. Now, she could barely contain herself.
“Can I tell you something? I thought we were friends.”
“We are friends, Joyce.”
“Yeah, but real friends, friends who look out for each other, friends who care. All this shit…Where does it all come from?”
“It’s a job, Joyce. It’s what I’m paid for. The quicker we resolve it, the sooner’ he shrugged ‘everything gets back to normal.”
“And you think that’s possible? Take a look at yourself, Joe Faraday. There are better ways of handling this. Ever think about the phone? Little call to clear things up? Old times’ sake?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Sure. So I see. Go right ahead. Interrogation time. You want me to draw the curtains? You want to spill a little blood here? Have a real party?”
She sat back, nursing her empty glass. Apart from a nest of Beanie Babies, she seemed to occupy most of the sofa.
“Let’s start with your husband.”
“What about him?”
“He left you, didn’t he? Went off with the probationer?”
“Sure. The lovely Bethany. One sweet babe.”
“And now?”
“He wants to come home again. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? Guys like him think only the young know about sex. Shame it’s taken him this long to find out what he’s missing. Poor child.”
“So no chance of him coming back?”
“Absolutely none.” She smiled at him, held her arms wide open. “Help yourself, sheriff. Meet a girl who knows a thing or two about hospitality.”
Faraday ducked his head. The next bit, he knew, was going to be tricky.
“Is there anyone else?” he asked at last.
“Like who?”
“I’ve no idea. That’s why I’m asking.”
“You think I can’t live without a man? You’re right. I can’t. Is it easy to find one? The kind of man that suits a girl like me? The kind of man who knows a thing or two? Right again. It isn’t.”
“So what do you do?”
“I look, Joe. I get out there and keep my fingers crossed and just sometimes I say a little prayer. Oh God, send me a man. You religious at all, Joe? Only it’s true, it sometimes helps.”
“You found a man?”
“I have. And he’s lovely. In fact he’s the loveliest thing I can imagine.”
�
�Who is he?”
“No way.” She was shaking her head.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“No.”
For a moment, it occurred to Faraday that she might be fantasising. Conversations like this could go on all night.
“What if I have a look round?”
That’s your decision. It happens that I think you won’t, but you might.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re a decent man. And because you haven’t got a search warrant.”
“I can get one. And you know I wouldn’t have to leave. A phone call would do it.”
“Sure. And it would be the middle of tomorrow before the thing turned up. Are you planning that long a stay, Joe? Should we think again about something to eat?”
Faraday knew she was trying to get the better of him, to marshal those memories, all those long-ago debts of gratitude he undoubtedly owed her. She’d been tireless and big-hearted as his stand-in management assistant. After Vanessa had been killed in the car accident, Joyce had filled more holes than one.
Faraday reached in his pocket for his mobile.
“What are you doing, sheriff?”
“Phoning for a warrant.”
“You’re a callous bastard. You’re stringing me along…Oh shit, why not? Go ahead. Help yourself.”
She swung her legs up onto the sofa, then changed her mind and reached for the bottle. When she’d recharged the glass she raised it to her lips, eyeing him over the rim. Faraday hadn’t moved.
“No clues, Joe.” She sipped at the Bailey’s. “You’re on your own now.”
The Le Havre ferry sailed ten minutes late. By midnight, with the lights of the mainland fast disappearing through the porthole, Winter was beginning to think that he’d got it wrong.
Valentine and Misty Gallagher had come straight down to the cabin with an overnight bag between them. Valentine had then disappeared,
returning minutes later with two bottles of champagne and a litre of Bacardi. It was hard to be certain on the tiny black and white monitor screen, but the champagne looked like Krug.
With the other three DCs crouched on the bottom bunks, Winter had watched Misty undress and slide between the sheets while Valentine readied two crystal glasses from the overnight bag and opened a bottle of champagne. He was a tall man, well preserved, with a greying mop of curly hair, and when he slipped his shirt off, it was evident that he worked out. He’d handed the brimming glasses to Misty and climbed in beside her. They’d finished the first bottle by the time the ferry was easing away from the quay side and were making love when The Pride of Portsmouth slipped out through the harbour narrows.
The watching DCs monitored this performance with interest. Valentine was clearly in love with oral sex and it was obvious that Misty’s inventiveness had survived the years of heavy-duty shagging with Bazza Mackenzie. It was, muttered one of the DCs, a bit like watching early porn: black and white and slightly fuzzy.
Now, forty minutes later, Misty and Valentine appeared to be asleep. The lights in the cabin were still on but their eyes were closed, Misty’s head nestled on Valentine’s chest.
“What do you think, then?” Danny French was inspecting their own bottle of Scotch. Gulliver had left it on the tiny table under the porthole, a parting gift from Special Ops. It was a nice gesture, they all agreed, and it would be a shame to waste it.
As senior DC, the decision rested with Winter.
“Give it another half-hour.” He was looking at his watch.
“Yeah, but who says Mackenzie’s even on board? Weren’t they supposed to bell you if he turned up and bought a ticket?”
Winter didn’t answer. He’d got the promise of a phone call from one of the P&O clerks in the booking hall at the ferry port but told himself there were a million reasons why she might not have got through. Maybe she’d been snowed under with other punters. Maybe Mackenzie had given her some kind of runaround. Maybe he’d paid cash for a ticket and not given a name. Maybe she’d mislaid Winter’s mobile number. Fuck knows.
The minutes dragged past. Misty stirred in her sleep, wrapping herself more tightly around Valentine. Their conversation earlier had told Winter absolutely nothing about either Mackenzie or the contents of the BMW X5 below. They were, on this evidence, a middle-aged couple with a lively sex life en route to some kind of holiday abroad. Only Misty’s muttered “Good fucking riddance’ as Gunwharf drifted past the porthole offered a glimpse of something more permanent.
By now, the steady roll of the ferry told Winter they were out in open water. One of the DCs had climbed onto the top bunk and had his eyes closed. The other two, French’s idea, were playing cards. Suddenly, unnanounced, came a thunderous knocking at Valentine’s cabin door. Winter got to his feet, his eyes glued to the TV screen, and gave the dozing DC a shake.
“Get up,” he hissed. “It’s kicking off.”
French was trying to suppress a laugh. Valentine had swung his legs out of the bunk and was standing in the middle of the cabin looking blearily at the door. Whatever dream he’d just abandoned must have been good because he was sporting a sizeable erection.
“Who is it?” he called.
Misty was up on one elbow now, the sheet clutched to her chin. There came another thump at the door, then a voice. Mackenzie. No attempt at disguise.
“Open this fucking door.”
Valentine exchanged looks with Misty.
“Who is it?”
“Baz.”
“What do you want?”
“You, mate. Open up, else I’ll kick the fucker in.”
Valentine was reaching for a towel. The erection was beginning to flag. When he shot a helpless look at Misty, she simply shrugged. Valentine unlocked the door and stepped gracefully back as Mackenzie tumbled in. The manoeuvre reminded Winter of a bullfight he’d once seen in Segovia, the wounded animal charging blindly around, unpredictable, immensely dangerous. Caged in this tiny cabin, thought Winter, Mackenzie could only get worse.
“You’re pissed, Baz.” Valentine had shut the door again.
“Think so?”
Mackenzie snatched at the towel, then stood motionless, his eyes moving slowly from Valentine to the bunk. Misty was starting to laugh.
“You should have told us you were coming,” she said lightly. “We could at least have been decent.”
Faraday had nearly finished downstairs. There’d been nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the way of letters or calendar notes or scribbled reminders. Dialling 1471 had produced a London number, which Faraday wrote down, while the redial button took him through to a recorded message announcing that British Gas would be open again for enquiries at 8.00 a.m. When Faraday accessed the message tape, a woman’s voice reminded Joyce that bowling had changed to Wednesdays, half seven, same place.
“I’m better than you might think,” Joyce announced from the sofa. “Must be that goddam prairie adolescence. Queen of the Grand Islands bowl. Winter of ‘78.” She was drunk now, toasting him with the empty glass as he turned his attention to the drawers in her sideboard. After a while, she struggled off the sofa and made her way carefully towards the CD player. Not Peggy Lee this time but Sarah Vaughan.
Faraday eyed the stairs. He knew he had no choice, not if he was going to box this thing off, but he was aware of the first stirrings of doubt. There were going to be casualties here, whatever the result, and one of them was a relationship he cherished.
“Up you go, sweetie. I know you can’t wait.”
Joyce didn’t care any more. She was back on the sofa, her legs folded beneath her, staring into nowhere as the music took her away. Faraday gave her a last backward glance.
“Bedside cabinet,” she said tonelessly. “Window side. What the fuck.” She wouldn’t look at him.
The bedroom was at the front of the house. Mirrored fitted units, floor to ceiling, lined the wall behind the door. The rest of the room was dominated by an enormous bed. The little cabinet beside it
was a flat-pack unit, recently repainted, and on top was the stub of a candle, planted in a puddle of wax in a saucer.
In the top drawer, beneath a Boots bag, Faraday found a pile of letters. He sank onto the bed and sorted quickly through the envelopes. Same handwriting. Same postmark. Dates going back to December last year. He returned to the most recent of letters, knowing that he’d found what he’d come for. Here, he thought, was the relationship that had brought Tumbril to its knees.
He hesitated a moment, curiously loath to read the letter. He was fond of Joyce. She’d been a true friend, there for him, not simply as a stand-in for Vanessa but more recently, only days ago, when he’d felt himself going under. Friday night, at the restaurant, she’d kept his little boat afloat.
“Do it, sheriff.”
Faraday looked round, feeling the stir of air. Joyce was standing in the open doorway, gazing across at him.
“You mind if… ?” He showed her the envelope. He felt cheap, dirtied by the task he’d set himself.
“Not at all.” Joyce shook her head. “You go right ahead.”
Faraday slipped the letter out. There were three sheets, writing on both sides, black ink.
“Read me the first paragraph.” It was Joyce again. “It’s beautiful.”
“Listen, Joyce, I’m not sure this…”
“You owe me, sheriff. Just do it.”
“OK.” Faraday shrugged, bending to the letter, trying to decipher the hurried scrawl. “My angel,” it began, ‘you’ve made an old man very, very happy. Not just the sex. Not just last night and the night before that and me too knackered to drive the bloody car afterwards. Not just the perfume and the ten cloves of garlic I had to explain. Not just waking up this morning and wondering where the hell you were. But everything since Christmas, and before that, and now, and God willing, forever. Blokes like me gave up on miracles years ago. Now this.”
“There.” Joyce was smiling. “I told you.”
Cut To Black Page 42
