Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

Parked three cars up the street, DC Paul Winter was trying to work out how many shots they'd taken.

"Six." Jimmy Suttle was studying the panel on the back of the camera.

"Four when he first turned up. Two just now."

"Full face?"

"A couple at least. We should pull him now. He has to be carrying.

Has to be."

"Leave it." Winter was watching the tall, awkward figure hurrying away down the street. Last time he'd seen Faraday's son, the boy had got himself mixed up with a bunch of young lunatics from Somers-town. A couple of years later, he'd evidently graduated to Class A narcotics.

"No?" Suttle had started to open the car door. "The guy's on a nicking. That wasn't a social call."

"You're right, son. Give me the camera."

"Why?"

"Because one of us has to stay here."

"And me?"

"I'd move sharpish if I were you." Winter nodded towards the end of the street. "Follow him and bell me."

"Follow him? I thought we were into bodies? Scalps?"

"We are." Winter was examining the camera. "Do you know who that boy belongs to?"

Faraday made his way to the Sally Port Hotel, resisting the temptation to enquire about Graham Wallace at the tiny reception desk. Had this latest rabbit from Willard's hat been in residence long? Did Tumbril have a permanent booking on room 6?

Climbing the carpeted stairs to the first floor, Faraday couldn't rid himself of the image of Nick Hayder, unconscious in his hospital bed, helpless in a cat's cradle of monitor leads and transfusion lines.

Managing an investigation this complex, trying to remember who was supposed to know what, would have been enough to drive any detective to the edge. No wonder he'd felt under siege.

A soft knock at room 6 drew an instant response. Faraday found himself looking at a tall, well-built man in his late twenties. He was wearing an expensive shirt tucked loosely into a pair of well-cut dark trousers. The silk tie, loosened at the collar, was a swirl of reds laced with a vivid turquoise. Despite the laugh lines around his eyes and the tiny gold ring in one ear, he looked tense.

"You are?"

"Joe Faraday."

"Come in. Graham Wallace." He had the briefest handshake.

Faraday stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The desk beneath the window was spread with paperwork and a linen jacket hung on the back of the chair. Beside the bed, a pair of Gucci loafers.

"Tea? There's one bag left."

"No thanks." Faraday eyed the empty packet of biscuits beside the kettle. "I could use a sandwich, though."

"Ring down. They'll bring something up." Wallace stepped across to the phone and dialled a number, then handed it to Faraday. Faraday ordered two tuna salad sandwiches, adding he'd pay for them on the way out.

When he'd put the phone down, Wallace gestured towards the empty chair.

"I'm sorry about Nick." He had a flat London accent. "Your guvnor said you were mates."

"That's right." Faraday nodded. "And we still are."

There was a moment of silence while the men eyed each other, then Faraday sank into the chair. u/c officers were notoriously wary, often more paranoid than the targets they were tasked to sting. Their very survival frequently depended on the lowest possible exposure to fellow officers.

"How tight did Nick keep all this?" Faraday gestured towards the desk.

"Only it would be helpful to know."

"Very tight. The only guys I ever deal with are Nick and a handler from Special Ops, Terry McNaughton."

"What about Willard?"

"Your govnor?" Wallace glanced up towards the door. "Never met him till just now. He says he's filling in for Nick."

"I thought that was my job?"

"It is. That's what he came to tell me."

"Why didn't Special Ops pass the message?"

"Good question."

"Did you ask him? Willard?"

"Of course I did."

"And?"

"He said he was SIO on the job so there was no way he wouldn't know about me. Thought face-to-face was better than a phone call from Special Ops."

"And you?"

"Me?" He offered Faraday a thin smile. "A phone call from Special Ops would have done just fine."

Faraday nodded. Special Ops was a tiny department of the Hantspol intelligence empire that supervised the deployment of u/c officers.

Terry McNaughton would be the handler charged with running Wallace, sharing the debrief with Nick Hayder after each new instalment of the Tumbril story.

"You could help me here," Faraday said slowly.

"How?"

"By telling me exactly the way it's gone so far. There's no point me trying to snow you. Twenty-four hours ago I was looking at a pretty much empty desk. Now this."

"No one's briefed you?"

"Willard's handed me the file. I've talked to the team. This isn't a three-day event."

"You're right." Wallace appeared to be on the verge of saying something else, then shrugged and lit a small, thin cheroot before settling himself full-length on the bed. "Where do you want me to start?"

Faraday hesitated. In cases like these, Nick Hayder and Terry McNaughton would deliberately limit the background knowledge shared with the u/c. The last thing they wanted was Wallace in conversation with the target unintentionally revealing more than he should have known.

"Nick and your handler would have sorted a first meeting."

"That's right. We met in London."

"When was that?"

"Before Christmas. Second week in December."

"What did they tell you?"

"They said they were mounting a long-term op against a drugs target, major dealer. Full flag, level three. Bloke called Mackenzie. The way Nick told it, this Mackenzie was into some serious business. Nick said he'd been pouring washed drugs money into all kinds of local investments bars, restaurants, property, hotels, all the usual blinds.

Everything was sweet, ticking away, lots of nice little earners, but there was something missing. Nick called it profile."

Faraday nodded. He'd heard Imber use the same word. Mackenzie, he'd explained drily, wasn't just interested in owning half of Pompey. He wanted more than that. He wanted to be Mr. Portsmouth, to have his name up there in lights. King of the City.

"So?"

"So my job was to make it hard for him to get that profile. Nick said he was after a particular property, really hot for it, a place that would give him everything he'd ever wanted. According to Nick, he was already halfway there. I'm the bloke that comes in with a counter-bid."

"And the property?"

"No one's told you?"

"No. That's why I'm asking."

"Right." Wallace was studying the end of his cheroot. "It's Spit Bank Fort."

"You're serious?"

"Absolutely."

"It's inhabited?"

"Yes. I've been out there. There's a German woman in charge, Gisela Mendel. She's running some kind of language school."

"And she's in on this? Or is the place really for sale?"

"I've no idea."

"That means no."

"That means I've no idea."

There was a knock on the door. Faraday got to his feet. A woman gave him a plate of thick-cut tuna sandwiches and told him she'd left the bill at reception. Back in his chair, attacking the sandwiches, Faraday tried to puzzle his way through this latest development.

Spit Bank was one of three Victorian sea forts guarding the approaches to Portsmouth Harbour. Half a mile out to sea from Southsea beach, it had been built to keep the French at arm's length. If Nick was serious about Mackenzie's thirst for profile, it was the perfect choice: a stubby granite thumb the size of a modest castle. Take a walk along the se afront and you couldn't miss it.

"So you've come in as a rival bidder?"

"That's right. As far as I can gather, Mackenzie opened negotiations after Christmas."

"At what price?"

"I haven't a clue. The asking price is one and a quarter mil and she's definitely been negotiating him up, but I don't know where the bidding stands right now."