Faraday nodded, impressed.
“Beautiful,” he agreed.
“Yep. And not just on paper, either. You want to tell me what law we’ve broken? Or do you do this kind of stuff for kicks?”
Faraday didn’t answer. There was only one question left and they both knew it. At length, Joyce stepped carefully across. The mattress sighed under her weight and they sat motionless, side by side. Faraday could feel the heat of her body, hear the steady rasp of her breathing. Finally, he returned the letter to its envelope, giving her the small, revelatory pleasure of naming this new man in her life.
“It’s Harry, sheriff.” She beamed at him, proud now, her face inches from his. “But you probably guessed that, eh? Being a detective?”
“He’s going mad.” It was Danny French, crouched in front of the monitor screen. He had a point.
Mackenzie, his broad back perfectly framed by the hidden video camera, was standing between the bunks in the cabin next door, eyeball to eyeball with Valentine. So far, there’d been no violence. Mackenzie had said his piece, produced his evidence, and simply wanted to know the truth. Had Valentine one of his best mates, one of his closest business partners, the man he’d trusted for most of his life really been shagging Misty Gallagher all this time? Or were they all the victim of some fucking evil wind-up? And if the latter was true, what exactly was he supposed to make of some poxy certificate suggesting that Trudy belonged not to him but to Valentine?
To none of these questions did Valentine appear to have any real answer. You’re pissed, he kept telling Mackenzie. You’re pissed, and you’re upset, but there’s nothing that a couple of hours decent kip couldn’t sort out. Yes, he and Misty were seeing each other. That much was obvious. But what else did he expect a good-looking woman to do if the man in her life went off with some Italian bimbette? To this, Misty added a round of applause. Bazza had just thrown her onto the street. What kind of gratitude was that after everything she’d done for him?
Now, Mackenzie seemed to be losing his bearings. His voice, light as ever, had begun to falter and he kept shaking his head as if something inside had come loose. He needed to find out for sure, he kept saying. Yet the last thing he seemed able to cope with was the truth.
“Did you?” he kept saying to Valentine. “Were you?”
“What?”
“Shagging? Back then? Before Trudy?” He looked wildly from one to the other, wanting a cast-iron denial, wanting his life preserved in the order he liked it best. This sudden possibility that he’d got it wrong all those years, that he’d been tossed leftovers from the feast that was Misty Gallagher, was visibly hurting him. He needed support, hard evidence, anything that put him back where he belonged. In charge.
Without warning, he reached up to the top bunk and seized Valentine’s overnight bag. It was biggish, blue leather, badged with the BMW logo. He turned it upside down and emptied the contents at Valentine’s feet. Then he was down on his hands and knees, hunting through the tangle of clothing. Winter recognised the book he’d found earlier at Misty’s apartment. The Rough Guide to Croatia.
“What’s this?” Mackenzie was staring up at Valentine, the book in his hand. “I thought you were going to fucking Spain?”
Valentine said nothing. Misty was flat on her back, the sheet still anchored to her chin, staring at the underside of the bunk above.
Mackenzie had returned to the contents of the bag, feeling around, looking for more clues, more paperwork, anything to put him out of his misery. Finally, he extracted a long white envelope.
“I’d have stuck one on him while he’s still got the chance.” Winter was nodding at the screen. “Bazza’s lost it.”
“Fuck-all evidence, though.” It was French. “If we’re still talking drugs.”
“That’ll be the least of it. Believe me.”
Mackenzie had opened the envelope. He was back on his feet now, swaying with the roll of the ship. He unfolded a couple of sheets and took a tiny step backwards until he was directly under the light. His mouth began to move, shaping the contents of the letter. There was a second sheet of paper. He barely spared it a glance.
“Senj?” He was looking at Valentine.
“It’s on the coast, Baz. Little holiday home. Brand new. Path down to the beach. Bit of land at the back. Friendly locals. You’ll love it.”
“Love it, fuck. You’re moving there, aren’t you? The pair of you? Look.” He thrust the letter into Valentine’s face. “Five bedrooms, double garage. Trude moving out too, is she? Trude and that fucking twat boyfriend detective of hers? Shit, I’m stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” He bent to the floor again, plucked at a piece of clothing, came up with one of Misty’s basques.
“Lucky dip, Baz.” Valentine was still trying to see the funny side.
“Lucky dip, bollocks. Is that all you can say? After everything we’ve been through? Everything we’ve done together? Lucky fucking dip?”
The bellow of rage came through the wall into the adjoining cabin. It was Mackenzie. He’d grabbed the bottle of Bacardi. He swung wildly at the stanchion supporting the bunk. The glass smashed, leaving the neck of the bottle in Mackenzie’s hand. Valentine had stepped backwards, pressing himself against the porthole.
“No, Baz,” he kept saying. “Listen.”
Mackenzie was staring at Misty. He looked like a man who’d suddenly found himself in a place he didn’t recognise. Nothing made sense. Nothing fitted. Some of the Bacardi had splashed on his jeans. The rest had ended up on the pile of clothes at his feet. He knelt again and abandoned the bottle, his hands moving blindly over the garments. He lifted a T-shirt of Misty’s and buried his face in it, breathing in, then balled the garment in his fist and let it drop. He looked up at her one last time, then dug in the pocket of his jeans. Winter caught the flare of the lighter, realised what would happen next.
“He’s going to torch the place.” He tore open the door of the cabin. “Fucking no way.”
Valentine’s cabin door was unlocked. Winter was first in. Mackenzie had set fire to the letter he’d found in the overnight bag and was holding it at arm’s length. Any second now he was going to drop it onto the spirit-soaked pile of clothing on the floor.
Valentine, by the porthole, seemed mesmerised. Misty was screaming. Winter hauled Mackenzie backwards, trying to grab his hand, but Mackenzie dropped the burning letter. There was a soft whoosh and a lick of blue flame as Winter ripped a blanket from the top bunk and began to smother the fire. The other DCs filled the tiny cabin. A smoke alarm began to wail.
“Arrest him,” Winter yelled over his shoulder. “Get the cuffs on.”
“What charge?”
Winter was still jumping on the blanket, the broken glass crunching beneath his shoes.
“Arson.” He was running out of breath. “What do you fucking think?”
Faraday was back in the lounge, waiting for Joyce to reappear from the bathroom. At length, she stepped carefully downstairs. Cold water seemed to have brightened her mood.
“You mind if I ask you a question or two?” Faraday said.
“Sure, go ahead. Let’s make a night of it.”
“How long has it been going on? You and Harry Wayte?”
Joyce studied him a moment. “Are we on the record here? Do you want to caution me?”
“No. It’s just a question.”
“OK.” She nodded. “Best part of a year.”
“That’s most of Tumbril.”
“You’re right. Though Harry came first.” She smiled. “Always.”
She said that she’d met him in the bar at Kingston Crescent. He’d been celebrating a Crown Court result on a contraband conspiracy. They’d had a few drinks and Harry had volunteered to drive her home.
“Here? To Southampton?”
“Sure. He’s a gentleman. Thought I deserved a little attention.”
They’d met a couple of times over the succeeding weeks, pubs and cafe-bars off the beaten track, often in Southampton. Pretty soo
n, Harry was turning up with a bottle or two in the evening. No need to waste money on other people’s booze.
“And…?” Faraday was nodding at the stairs.
“Sure. He wanted it. I wanted it. The surprise was we fitted so well. Ever find that, Sheriff? That Eadie of yours?”
The affair had deepened in the autumn. Harry was married but his wife was out most nights, busy with a thousand little pursuits. His kids had gone. The house was empty. And Joyce was happy to make room in her life for two. No formal commitment. No talk of divorce and remarriage and all that shit. Just each other, three or four times a week. Great sex, great conversation, chance to cook for two.
“What did you talk about?”
“Everything. Me, him, my creep of a husband, his pudding of a wife, places we’d been, places we’d like to go.”
“Together?”
“Sure.”
“Like where?”
“Me? I had a thing about Marrakesh. Still do, matter of fact. Harry? He wants to take me to Russia.”
“Moscow?”
“Volgograd. Apparently there was a battle there.”
“And you think you’ll make it?”
“Sure. You want something bad enough, it’ll happen.”
Faraday nodded. Marta, he thought. And a year of stolen weekends.
“You mentioned conversation. What else do you talk about?”
“Everything. Is that a big deal?”
“It could be.” He paused. “Does “everything” include the job?”
“Of course. Harry’s pissed off, big time, and from what he tells me I don’t blame him.”
“Tumbril?”
For a moment, Joyce said nothing. This, they both knew, was where friendship parted company with something infinitely less elastic.
“I’ve mentioned it from time to time,” she said carefully. “Heck, it’s impossible not to.”
“So he knows about the operation?”
“Sure. But I just confirmed a rumour. Nothing comes to Harry as a surprise.”
“He told you he knew already?”
“Sure.”
“And you believed him?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“Because he’s a detective, Joyce. And a bloody good one. Detectives lie all the time. You know that. It’s part of the MO.”
“So you’re telling me I should have kept my mouth shut?”
“I’m telling you it might have been better to stick to Marrakesh. You’re in the shit now, Joyce. And so is Harry.”
“You going to talk to him?”
“Somebody will.”
“Officially?”
“Afraid so.”
“You want me to phone him? Stand him by?”
“You’ll do that anyway.”
“Too damn right I will.” She smiled at him. “You mind me asking you a question?”
“Not at all.”
“What brought you here tonight? Why me?”
Faraday studied her for a long moment. Then he explained about the phrase Mackenzie had used in the conversation with Wallace, a phrase that could only have come from the earlier briefing on Whale Island. Punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor.
“Coincidence, sheriff?”
“Doesn’t work. Not in real life. If it looks like a duck, odds are it is a duck.”
“But there were four people at that briefing. I can see them now. I’m counting. So why me?”
Faraday paused again. No detective in his right mind would answer a question like this.
“I gave you a lift last week,” he said at last. “I dropped you off in town. Remember?”
“Sure…and I saw that receipt on your dashboard. The Sally Port.
Room six. You know what I said to Harry that night? I said Harry, Joe Faraday’s screwing some woman in a hotel in Old Portsmouth. And you know what Harry said? He said good luck to him.”
“Did you give him the room number? The date?”
“Probably. This girl’s a stickler for detail. Part of my charm.” She paused. The smile had returned, warmer this time. She put her hand on Faraday’s arm. “Tell me something, sheriff.”
“What’s that?”
“Was it true about the woman? Room six?”
Chapter 25
TUESDAY, 25 MARCH 2003, 07.58
Faraday awoke a minute or two before eight to find Eadie already gone. A note on the pillow said she’d departed on a mission. An invitation to lunch at a Southsea restaurant followed, sealed with a flamboyant kiss.
For once, Faraday resisted the temptation to turn on the bedside radio. The war, as far as he could gather, had turned into a showcase for American technology, inch-perfect uppercuts delivered from hundreds of miles away thanks to the miracles of laser targeting and GPS. Sooner rather than later, American armoured columns would thunder into Baghdad, Bush would declare peace, and then in all probability -the real war would begin.
The big, bare living room was already bathed in sunshine. In the kitchenette Faraday was hunting for a fresh box of tea bags when he caught the trill of his mobile.
“Faraday?” It was Harry Wayte. “What the fuck’s going on?”
Harry wasted no time on small talk. He’d had a call from Joyce. Last night’s little visit had been totally out of order. What kind of copper took advantage of a friendship to go banging around in someone else’s private life?
Twice, Faraday tried to interrupt, to explain himself, to put everything into some kind of context, but he knew there was no point.
“You want a meet?” he managed at last.
“Too fucking right, I do. And nowhere near the nick, either.”
“Car park on Farlington Marshes? Half ten?”
“I’ll be there.”
Wayte rang off, leaving Faraday gazing at the mobile. He knew with total certainty that Harry Wayte had blown Tumbril not just part of it, but all of it. He walked across to the window and stared out. High tide, he thought numbly, watching the water lapping at the landing stage on Spit Bank Fort. He stood motionless for a moment or two,
wondering whether Gisela Mendel was in residence, whether she, too, was up and half-dressed, gazing out at the makings of a tricky day.
Faraday returned to the kitchenette and retrieved his mobile. Willard answered his call on the second ring. He was still at home in Portsmouth but was due to leave for Winchester any minute. Faraday kept it short. He had compelling evidence that the Tumbril disaster was down to Harry Wayte. And now Harry wanted a meet.
“Who with?”
“Me.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Half ten.”
“How sure are you? About Harry?”
“Very sure.”
“Stay there. I need to talk to someone.”
Willard was back on the phone within minutes. Faraday was perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of tea.
“Where are you at the moment?”
“Eadie’s place. South Parade.” He gave Willard the address.
There was a brief pause. Then Willard was back on the line.
“Someone’ll be round within the hour. Face you might recognise.”
“Like who?”
“Graham Wallace.”
“Wallace? Why?”
“I want you to wear a wire to the meet.” Willard wasn’t interested in arguments. “I’m going to sort that bastard Wayte if it’s the last thing I do. Wind him up, Joe, Press his buttons. I want evidence. I want the thing wrapped up by lunchtime. You hear what I’m saying?”
It took Eadie Sykes the best part of half an hour to dupe the VHS cassette she needed at Ambrym. With the dub under way, she checked her watch, wondering whether it was too early to risk a call to Kingston Crescent. One way or another, she was determined to prise J-J free from the threat of further police action. Given the prospects for the video, it was the least she owed him.
Secretan’s name took Eadie throu
gh to a woman who appeared to be in charge of the Chief Supt’s diary. She had a light Ulster accent and wanted to know how pressing a need she had to talk to her boss.
“Very pressing,” Eadie told her. “If he’s there, just mention a name.”
“Yours?”
“Daniel Kelly. I’ve made a video about him and I think Mr. Secretan should take a look.”
The assistant put Eadie on hold. Then it was suddenly Secretan himself on the line.
“Eadie Sykes?”
“That’s me. I was just wondering…”
“Where are you?”
“Down the road.”
“I can spare you a couple of minutes. Now would be good.”
It was less than a mile to the police station at Kingston Crescent. Eadie left the Suzuki in a supermarket car park across the road and found a uniformed WPC waiting for her at the front desk. Secretan’s office was on the first floor. The woman with the Ulster accent offered her a cup of tea or coffee.
“Coffee, please. Black.”
Secretan appeared from his office and stood aside as Eadie stepped in. He gestured at the chair in front of his desk and opened the window.
“Beautiful day. Far too nice to be banged up in here.” He turned back into the room. “What can I do for you?”
Eadie told him about the video. At the mention of J-J and his contribution to the camera work and the research, he nodded.
“You’re talking about Joe Faraday’s boy?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “Joe and I are good friends.”
“Is that something I should be aware of? Is it’ he smiled at her ‘germane?”
“I’ve no idea. I just thought I’d get it out of the way.” She plunged a hand into her day sack and produced the video cassette. “This is the final cut, minus the funeral.”
“What do you do? Leave a space?”
“Yes.”
“Bit like real life, then.”
“Exactly.” Eadie was beginning to warm to this man. He was down to earth, real, and he had an easy sense of humour. “Do you want to see it?”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
Secretan glanced at his watch, then left the office. Eadie strained to catch the brief conversation next door, then Secretan was back again.
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