As the camera lingered at his son’s bedroom door, Eadie was still watching Daniel’s father. Daniel had collapsed on the bed, plucking feebly at the duvet. The shot slowly tightened on the face on the pillow. There was a flicker of movement, a tiny nerve beneath an eye. Then the big face rolled to the left, directly towards the watching camera. Daniel was smiling. Eadie saw his father’s head tip back in despair. His eyes closed. He took a deep breath.
Then the screen cut to black.
Later that same day, early evening, Faraday found himself in the Southsea branch of Waitrose. He joined the shortest of the queues at the checkout, wondering if he had time to fit in a visit to Nick Hayder up at the QA. On the point of unloading his basket at the till, he felt a tug on his arm. It was Harry Wayte.
“Joe,” he said amiably. “Long time.”
“Harry.” Faraday offered a nod. “How’s tricks?”
“Fine. Finally jacked it in last week.”
“Jacked what in?”
“The job. Bunch of us had a few bevvies at a pub over in Fareham. Would have dropped you an invite but…No offence.”
Faraday studied Wayte for a moment. To the best of his knowledge, Professional Standards were still pursuing an enquiry, though he was woolly about the details.
“My brief says they’re wasting their time.” Wayte could read his mind. “Can’t find anything to tie me to Bazza. Not a shred, Joe. Not a phone call. Not an e-mail. Not a penny I can’t account for. Not a single, fucking dicky bird. Look.” He nodded at the waiting checkout assistant. “You’re pissing her off, too.”
Minutes later, in the car park, Faraday was finishing a call on his mobile when he caught sight of Wayte emerging from the supermarket. With his flapping raincoat and bulging carrier bags, he looked an old man already. He crossed the tarmac and paused behind a new-looking BMW convertible while he fumbled for his key.
Faraday pocketed his mobile and stirred the Mondeo into life.
Slipping the clutch, he eased the car forward. Wayte was loading the boot of the BMW with litre bottles of German lager. Faraday paused beside him. The car was blue with a Play Up Pompey sticker on the back.
Wayte glanced up. Faraday was still gazing at the Pompey sticker.
“Nice motor, Harry. Must have cost a bit.”
Wayte looked down at him, savouring this small moment of truth.
“You’re right,” he said at last. “It did.”
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