Cut to Black faw-5

by Graham Hurley

  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 amp;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 mobi
le 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."

  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.r />
  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.