"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 soon, 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 twenty-five
TUESDAY, 25 MARCH 2003, 07.$8
Faraday aw
oke 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 through 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.
"We've got forty minutes, tops," he said. "The machine's down in the corner. Best if you do the honours."
Eadie loaded the cassette and resumed her seat. She must have seen the video dozens of times by now but in new company it always felt a subtly different experience. Secretan sat in silence through the viewing.
Twice he reached for a pen and scribbled himself a note. At the end, he nodded.
"Powerful," he murmured. "You've got permissions for all this stuff?"
"Every last frame."
"And what happens now?"
Eadie explained about distribution. It would be going into schools, youth groups, colleges, anywhere an audience could spare twenty-five minutes of their busy, busy lives.
"They'd be crazy not to."
"That's my feeling." Eadie knelt to the player and retrieved the cassette. "You haven't asked me about the funding yet."
"Should I?"
"Well, yes. The way it works, I had to raise half the budget under my own steam. That meant hundreds of letters, phone calls, tantrums, you name it. In the end, I got 5000 from the Police Authority, 7000 from a businessman donated through a cut-out, and about 2000 from other sources.
"Cut-out?"
"My ex-husband. He's an accountant. Mr. Bountiful wanted to stay out of it." She smiled and slipped the video cassette into its plastic box. "With my 14,000, I fronted up to the local partnership. They match-fund. It's government money, as I'm sure you know."
Secretan nodded. Eadie could see he hadn't a clue where any of this might lead.
"So?"
"So I end up with 28,000, which is fine, and I put together what you've just seen. You think it works?"
"I think it's extremely effective. In fact I'd go further. I think it's bloody excellent."
"Good. Unfortunately, there's a problem."
"How come?"
"The guy with the seven grand turns out to be called Bazza Mackenzie."
Secretan allowed himself a small, private smile. There was indeed a problem.
"This film is co-sponsored by Mackenzie?"
"That's right. And in the poshest company." She smiled. "As you can see."
"Why Mackenzie? What was in it for him?"
>
"Lots, the way he figured it. That's why I told him no deal."
"When was this?"
"Yesterday. He was after a share of the profits. I pointed out there won't be any profits."
"Do you know what Mackenzie does' Secretan frowned 'for a living?"
"Now I do, yes."
"And do you know he's just been arrested for arson? On a cross-Channel ferry?"
Eadie thought about this development for a moment or two. In essence, it changed nothing.
"The fact remains he paid for the thing. Or helped to."
"Indeed." Secretan nodded. He pushed back his chair and went across to the window again. "We're talking about J-J, aren't we?"
"Yes. He's on police bail. Pending further inquiries."
Secretan said nothing. Eadie watched him at the window, deep in thought. At length, he turned back to her.
"Great film," he extended a hand, 'and outstanding camera work Eadie got to her feet and shook his hand. Secretan started to laugh.
"I meant the video." His hand was still out. "There are one or two other people who ought to take a look."
The entrance to the RSPB bird sanctuary on Farlington Marshes lies at the end of a gravel track that runs beside the main east-west motorway at the top of the city. Most birds are driven south by the incessant thunder of traffic, feasting on the rich mud flats that ring the tongue of salt marsh extending deep into Langstone Harbour. A scrap of land off the slip road from the motorway offers parking for visitors to the sanctuary. Faraday was there with five minutes to spare.
At length, eager for something to take his mind off the imminent encounter, he got out of the Mondeo and looked around. The gravel was littered with broken glass from yet another vehicle break-in and he kicked the worst of it away before slipping his Leica binoculars from their case and propping his elbows on the car roof.
On the second sweep, he caught sight of a pair of lapwings, windmilling above the salt marsh. He'd glimpsed them earlier from the road, driving down beside the harbour, and there they were, in perfect close-up. Absorbed by the small drama of their flight, he failed to hear Harry Wayte's arrival. Only when the DI got out of his car and crunched towards him across the gravel did Faraday turn round.
"Walk?" Wayte set off down the track towards the picket gate at the end without a backward glance.
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