Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

"Witnesses?"

"Against Talbot?" Trudy started to laugh. "Do me a favour. You guys are supposed to be cluey. Who's going to grass up someone like that?"

Suttle was looking at the bag Winter had brought.

"What's in there."

"Grapes. I thought you needed a bit of TLC "That's me." Trudy started to laugh again. "I'm TLC, aren't I, Jimmy?

You know what time we got up? Tell him, lover."

The state of Suttle's face couldn't hide his embarrassment. When he asked Trudy to put the kettle on, she got reluctantly to her feet and disappeared into the house.

Suttle turned on Winter.

"What fucking happened to you, then?"

"I was on my way back."

"So where are the keys?"

"Bit of an accident. I locked them in the apartment by mistake."

"Great. I could have used you in there. Turned out the bloke had been watching me from the off. Trudy He broke off and shook his head.

"Trudy what?"

"Had a real go. Borrowed one of her mate's heels and tried to bury it in Talbot's head. If he hadn't been still battering me, it would have been funny."

Winter was looking at the back of the house. Through the downstairs window, he could see Trudy drifting around the kitchen, looking for the tea bags.

"Still keen is she?"

"Keen? Shit, you should have been up there a couple of hours ago." He nodded at the bedroom window. "She's more knackering than taking on Talbot. Her version of convalescence could put you in hospital."

"Lucky boy."

"You think so? She was going away next week. Know what's happened now?"

"Tell me."

"She's cancelled. Can't leave me in this state, she's saying. Has to move in and look after me." He paused. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Winter was watching Trudy as she tottered into the garden with a tray of tea. "I'd enjoy it, if I were you."

"While it lasts, you mean?"

"Yeah." Winter cleared a space on the rug. "That's exactly what I mean."

Faraday had never seen Willard so angry. It wasn't just the collapse of Tumbril. Nor was it the fact that the Spit Bank sting had gone so spectacularly wrong, nor that a year's work had gone down the khazi, nor that he'd be personally held responsible for the waste of hundreds of thousands of pounds' worth of precious resources. No, it was the humiliation. Find yourself trapped in your own car, obliged to listen to the rantings of Bazza Mackenzie, and you'd be looking for blood.

"Where are they?"

"Brian Imber's taken a couple of his boys to London. Joyce isn't answering her mobile. Prebble's gone to Milan for the weekend."

"Keep trying. I want them all in here ASAP."

"It's Sunday," Faraday pointed out. "And they weren't invited in the first place."

"Sure, but that's a bit academic, isn't it? I'm no mathematician, Joe, but I can count. Leave Hayder out of this and there's five of us in Tumbril, five of us that matter. I've listened to the end of that fucking tape twice now and it's obvious."

"Obvious how?"

"Mackenzie knows. He knows everything. He's probably known since we moved into Whale Island. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if the little fucker knew before we even dreamed the operation up. This is madness, Joe. Unless we get on top of this, we'll all end up in St. James."

St. James was the local psychiatric hospital, a sprawling Victorian pile half a mile inland from the Bargemaster's House.

Grip, thought Faraday. "We're really talking about the covert," he said slowly. "And I make that four, not five."

"Four?" Willard was looking blank.

"You, sir. Me. Wallace. And McNaughton." He paused. "Plus Gisela Mendel."

"Gisela's straight," Willard said at once.

"So is McNaughton. So is Wallace. So am I. Gisela wants to off load the fort for real. That says motive to me." He offered Willard a chilly smile. "Just a thought, sir, that's all."

Willard's phone began to ring. It was Cathy Lamb. She was downstairs.

She needed to talk to Willard urgently.

"Come up," he grunted. "Join the party."

It took Cathy less than a minute to appear at the door. The sight of Faraday seemed to take her by surprise. She nodded at him, then apologised to Willard for her gardening gear.

"Been on the allotment," she explained.

"Don't blame you. I can think of worse ways of spending a Sunday.

What's the problem?"

Cathy explained about the arrest of Barry Leggat. Winter had pulled him last night with a decent stash of cocaine. Leggat worked for Valentine and Winter had cause to believe that the car dealer was getting out with the rest of the coke.

"Whose coke?"

"Winter doesn't know. He thinks there's probably a connection to Mackenzie but he doesn't know how."

"Evidence?"

Cathy summarised it. Most of it was either guesswork or circumstantial. Beyond dispute was the fact that Valentine was selling his house, disposing of his business, and had booked a ticket on tomorrow night's sailing to Le Havre. P amp;O had finally come back and confirmed a ticket for a vehicle and a four-berth cabin in the name of Mr. M. Valentine.

"They've got a number for the cabin?"

"Yes, sir."

"You think they might be up for a spot of covert? Only we're good at that." To Cathy's relief, Willard appeared to be ahead of the game.

"Don't know, sir. I thought you might make the call. That's why I'm here."

"Fine. Get me a name and phone number."

"It's the divisional manager. He's at home at the moment but he's expecting a call."

"No problem." He offered her a thin smile. "It'll be a pleasure."

Cathy disappeared downstairs again to phone the number through. Willard stared at Faraday.

"You think Mackenzie's taking the piss again?" He frowned. "Or is Winter onto something?"

SUNDAY, 23 MARCH 2003, 17.40

Paul Winter had been trying to raise Harry Wayte for the last couple of days. Early Sunday evening, he finally got through.

"Been away," Wayte explained. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Just wondered whether you'd fancy a pint."

"Why?"

Winter had known Harry Wayte for years and had always admired him.

There was a bluntness and impatience about the man that had made him one of the more effective DIs. At one point Winter had almost sorted himself a transfer to Wayte's Tactical Crime Unit, but Harry had a nose for artists like Winter and the vacancy had finally gone to a younger DC. Winter had been disappointed at the time but Wayte for him was still a light in the darkness. Spend an hour or so with Harry, and you felt you were talking to a real copper.

"One or two things to discuss," Winter said lightly.

"It's Sunday. Why can't it wait?"

"Because next week's a bastard." Winter glanced at his watch. "You still living up in Havant?"

Wayte told him a meet was out of the question. He was off to Fort Nelson this evening for a get-together with some friends. It was a regular thing, happened every month, and even the likes of Paul Winter wouldn't break the pattern.

Wayte paused. "What's it about, then?" he queried.

"Mike Valentine."

There was a long silence. Then Wayte was back on the phone. The meeting at Nelson started at half seven, bunch of guys from the Palmerston Forts Society. First half-hour or so was boring as fuck but this evening they were watching a little play of some kind, an entertainment, and guests were welcome. Why didn't Winter come up, watch the play, then afterwards they could talk?

"Delighted. Half seven, then."

Faraday had decided to walk to the cathedral. From the Bargemaster's House to Old Portsmouth was a serious trek with the detour down to the se afront at least five miles but he knew he needed the fresh air.

Tumbril had blown up in their faces, an event as violent and unexpected as any car bomb, and his head was still ringing from the explosion.