Graham Hurley: Cut to Black

As Crewdson and Mackenzie headed for the door, the Custody Sergeant beckoned Winter to the desk.

"Message from Scenes of Crime." He put on his glasses and peered at the scribbled note. "They've stripped the BMW but found nothing." He glanced up. "I understand the parties involved have been released."

Winter and French emerged from Central minutes later. It was getting dark by now and it took a moment or two for Winter to recognise the figure standing by the roundabout. Mackenzie.

"Waiting for a lift," French grunted. "Must be."

Winter said nothing. He walked French to his Subaru, glancing over his shoulder to check on Mackenzie again. By the time they were both in the car, he was still at the kerb side still waiting.

For a full minute Winter sat motionless behind the wheel. French wanted to get back to Kingston Crescent.

"Well? Are we here all fucking night or what?"

"Wait."

"Why?"

"Because I say so, OK?" Winter shot him a look, then returned his attention to Mackenzie. French began to argue again but then gave up and reached for the door handle. Better a cab than this farce.

"Look." Winter stopped him.

A sleek Mercedes convertible had pulled up beside Mackenzie. The bulky figure behind the wheel leaned over and opened the passenger door.

"It's Talbot." Winter started the engine and began to pull out of the car park.

"What now?" French was looking alarmed.

"We follow them."

"You're joking. You and another fucking pursuit? Nearly killed Dawn Ellis last year, didn't you?"

"Who said anything about a pursuit?" Winter was enjoying himself at last, back in a plot he understood. "Twenty quid says they're going up to Waterlooville."

"Waterlooville? Why would they do that?"

"Valentine. Unfinished business. Bazza has some sorting out to do."

"And we're going to be there? To watch it all? Terrific'

French sat back, eyes closed, resigned now to whatever might happen next.

The Mercedes headed out of the city. On the dual carriage way that fed rush-hour traffic onto the motorway, Talbot suddenly signalled left, ducking onto the slip road that led down to the ferry port and the northern suburbs.

"He's clocked you," French said drily as they slowed for the roundabout. "I'll get out here. Bloody walk to the office."

Spotting a gap in the oncoming swirl of cars, Winter accelerated hard.

Moments later, they were back behind the Mercedes.

"Subtle," French muttered. "You must have done this before."

Half a mile later the Mercedes indicated left again, turning into a cul-de-sac that led to a scruffy industrial estate. Soon they were bumping over a potholed track, the back of the city's greyhound stadium on one side, a builder's yard on the other. Ahead, the last of the daylight silhouetted a line of ancient military vehicles, awaiting the wrecker's blowtorch.

"The scrap yard Winter was talking to himself. "Maybe they've lifted Valentine already. Got him trussed up and waiting. Baz has done this before." He glanced across at French. "You with me?"

French was fumbling for a cigarette. He wanted no part of this.

The Mercedes had disappeared into the scrap yard Winter pulled into the shadow of the stadium and killed the engine. In the sudden silence came the sigh of the wind off the nearby harbour.

"What now?" It was French. He couldn't find his lighter.

"We get out. Take a look."

"Back-up?"

"Don't need it. You up for this or not?" Winter didn't bother to wait for an answer.

With some reluctance, French joined him in the chilly twilight. They made their way into the scrap yard keeping to the fence on the left.

Beyond a line of army surplus tanks, Winter could make out the whale-like shape of an abandoned submarine beside the scrap yard jetty — rusty, half submerged, a relic from some long-forgotten war.

"Is there another exit?" French was looking for the Mercedes.

Without warning, a pair of headlights pinned them against the fence.

The Mercedes was parked twenty metres away, behind the nearest of the tanks. Clever. An engine purred into life. The car began to roll towards them.

"Now what?" French had stopped.

"Fuck knows." Winter kept walking.

The Mercedes pulled into a tight turn, rolling to a stop beside Winter.

The passenger window slid down, Mackenzie's face shadowed against the glow of the dashboard. Winter looked down at him, then stepped backwards as Mackenzie opened the door. For a moment, neither man said a word. Then Mackenzie beckoned him closer.

"You kill me, you guys," he said. "You think I'm really stupid, don't you? Really thick?"

Winter could smell the gum on his breath. Spearmint.

"He's probably at home, Baz. Tucked up again. Celebrating."

"You took his motor apart?"

"Of course."

"And?"

"Clean as a whistle."

"What a fucking surprise. Don't you cunts ever learn?"

There was a long silence, then a brief flare in the darkness beside the fence. Danny French had evidently found his lighter.

Mackenzie hadn't finished. He had something to get off his chest, something important, and now was the time.

"You know what it boils down to in the end?" he said. "Business.

That's all it is. Just business. You're telling me Valentine's spent the last twenty years knob bing Mist, I believe you. You think any of that makes any difference, you're out of your fucking mind. And you know why? Because I didn't get this far to blow it all over a dog like Mist. Valentine's history, mush. I'll pension him off. He gets Mist for free. Big fucking deal." He paused. "You got all that? Only it might be time for your twat friends in Tumbril to wise up. This game's bigger than you think. In fact it's bigger than anyone thinks." He offered Winter a sudden grin. "Give me a bell sometime if you're desperate. See if we can't work something out… eh?"

THURSDAY, 24 APRIL 2003

The inquest on the death of Daniel Kelly took place at the end of April. With three weeks advance warning and Tumbril quietly laid to rest, Eadie and Faraday took a brief holiday in northern Spain, returning a couple of days before the inquest convened.

Martin Eckersley, the coroner, met Eadie in the magistrates court.

"You look amazing," he said. "Years younger."

"Thanks, Martin."

"I mean it." He produced a video cassette from his briefcase. "I looked at this a couple of nights ago. I understand it now."

"What?"

"All the fuss in the press. Didn't spare the details, did you?"

"Never. You're still going to use some of the rushes in there?" Eadie nodded down the hall towards the Coroner's Court.

"Definitely. I'm using the sequence you sent with the finished video.

The lad injecting then stumbling off to bed."

"You're sure that's enough?"

"That's all that's germane. We're here to establish the facts, Eadie."

He patted her on the arm. "The clever stuff is down to you."

Eadie went off in search of coffee to kill the time before the inquest was due to begin. She'd given the News a copy of the video, and to her delight they'd turned the resulting controversy into a two-page feature. The health educationalists were outraged, as were many of the specialist agencies in the drugs field. Pictures as unsparing as these, they warned, might easily do watching kids real harm. Many teachers and parents, on the other hand, couldn't wait to sit their charges down in front of a TV. Here, for once, was the unvarnished truth.

Of Bazza Mackenzie, mercifully, there was no mention in the News feature. Eadie had kept Mackenzie's financial contribution towards the project to herself, and she and Faraday had celebrated when J-J's CID file was closed after the CPS ruled the interview at Central inadmissible. Free from police bail, J-J had decided to accept Eadie's invitation to join Ambrym full time and develop a small library of, as she put it, in-your-face social documentaries. J-J's editing work on the anti-war video had shown every sign of opening a number of doors in London post-production houses, but in the end he'd decided to stay in Portsmouth.