Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

Winter watched him drain his glass, then went to the bar for refills.

By the time he got back, Wayte was deep in an abandoned copy of the Sunday Telegraph.

"So what are you going to do?"

"When?" Wayte looked up, folding the paper.

"After September."

"Ah…" He grinned. "You want the list?"

First off, there was long-overdue maintenance on his little fleet of model warships. A major battle was scheduled on Canoe Lake for Trafalgar Day, and he needed his frigates in full fighting order.

Afterwards, once he'd taken his missus on the promised jaunt to Venice, he was joining the Hilsea Lines project.

"What's that, then?"

"Down there." Wayte nodded into the darkness. "Bunch of blokes have got together on a restoration project. The place has been a wilderness, bits still are. They've put paths in, sorted out some of the casemates, done a bit of research. A couple of blokes on the job have been involved. Me? Can't wait. Cheers. Happy days, eh?"

His huge hand closed around the glass. Hilsea Lines was the inner circle of defence works that protected the north shore of Portsea Island, yet another confirmation that Pompey's hackles were permanently raised. Anyone with a serious interest in this martial little city would have to fight for it.

"What's with Valentine, then?" Wayte had plainly tired of social chitchat.

"I'm thinking of buying a motor off him."

"And that's why' Wayte looked astonished 'you wanted a meet? To talk about Valentine's cars}' "Yeah." Winter smiled at him. "Any other reason I should be interested?"

The question was a direct challenge and Wayte knew it. He sat back in his chair, eyeing Winter, trying to gauge his real interest.

"Valentine's leaving," he said at last. "Selling up. Getting out. Did you know that?"

"Yeah. And I was wondering why."

"Because he's had enough."

"Enough of what?"

"This shit-hole city. Bloke's made himself a packet, done well out of the motors. He's what… forty… forty-five? That kind of age, you've still got plenty of time to make the most of it. Wouldn't blame him, would you?"

"Where's he going?"

"Spain, as far as I know."

"Marbella?"

"Could be. Half of Pompey seem to live down there. Good luck to the bloke is what I say."

"So why aren't you shipping out, then? If it's such a crap place to live?"

"Because it doesn't bother me, not the way it bothers blokes like Valentine. I've lived here all my life, just like my dad did, just like his dad did. Those days, you got yourself a decent education, learned to handle yourself, went to sea, got a proper job afterwards.

Me? I've loved it all until recently, but that's the job's fault, not mine. Pompey's home, Paul. And my missus can't stand all that Spanish sun."

Winter nodded. He understood exactly what Harry meant.

"Cathy Lamb mentioned some intelligence you raised a couple of days ago," he said carefully. "Big cocaine shipment. Wouldn't have any details, would you?"

"Fraid not."

"You don't have the details or you're not up for sharing them?"

"Don't have the details. Couple of my blokes have their ears to the ground. Street prices are down, too. That tells me it's more than a rumour."

"But no names attached?"

"No." He reached for his glass again. "Why?"

"I was just wondering about Bazza."

"No." He shook his huge head. "Definitely not. Bazza's out of the front line now, too much else going on for him, too busy playing the businessman."

"You don't think he's retained an interest?"

"That's different. Fuck knows how you prove it but I'd be amazed if he wasn't staking other guys, keeping it in the family. Where else would he get a return like that? It's simple arithmetic, mate. Give me the back of an envelope and I'll show you the way it works. Big profits.

Zero risk." He took another long pull from his glass. "How come you don't know all this already? I thought you were on Cathy's squad?"

"I am."

"Then what's this about?"

Winter had anticipated the question. For once, he'd barely touched his second pint.

"Does the word Tumbril mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does. Some half-arsed covert, isn't it? Run out of Major Crimes?"

"You tell me. All I hear is gossip."

"That's all I hear but it sounds pretty fucking kosher to me. Problem is, the thing'll never work."

"We're talking Bazza again?"

"Yeah. Right target maybe but these guys are five years too late. The time to nick Mackenzie was when he was down in the trenches, taking a risk or two. Nowadays you'll never get anywhere near the bloke. You should go down the command chain, look for the up-and-coming Bazzas.

They're the blokes to target."

"And you think that would make a difference?"

"Not the slightest. You're the guys who've been chasing round after the Scouse kids, aren't you? It's supply and demand, mate, not rocket science. Take the local blokes off the plot and all you do is open the door to those nutters. It's like Iraq. Say we win this war. Say we kill Saddam. And say the country falls apart afterwards. What'll happen in twelve months time? Everyone will be running around looking for a strongman, someone to sort the Iraqis out, someone to impose a bit of order."

"A Bazza?"

"Yeah, a Bazza. He had this city taped until the Scousers turned up.

Now it's a mess."

"Is that Tumbril's fault? If they've been trying to take him down?"

"Haven't a clue, mate. Who knows, they might even get a result despite everything I say. But that's not going to solve the problem, is it?

Not when kids want to get off their heads all the time. I'm telling you, Paul, it's a dog's breakfast. Supply and demand. The magic of capitalism. Thank Christ I'm out soon."

"So there's fuck-all point even trying?"

"There's fuck-all point thinking you're gonna solve anything. Trying's different. Trying's what we do. Problem with blokes like me is we've tried so bloody hard all our lives that conversations like this really begin to hurt." He nodded, combative now, moist-eyed. "Your age, Paul, it might be different. You're still just young enough to kid yourself you can make a difference."

"I never thought that in my life."

"You didn't? Then why do you bother?"

"Because I enjoy it."

"Well that makes you very rare. Blokes like me, we're stuffed in the end because we really did believe we could make a difference, but then you wake up in the morning and you realise there's absolutely no fucking chance. Number one, the problem's too massive. Number two, we haven't got a clue what to do about it. We're like the military, always fighting the war before last."

"So what's the answer?"

"You're asking me?"

"Yeah."

"You jack it in."

"And the rest of us?"

"No idea, mate." He reached for his glass. "And you know something else? I don't fucking care."

Faraday took a taxi back to the Bargemaster's House. There was a message from Eadie waiting for him on the answer phone She sounded excited, wanted to share something with him, and for a moment he was tempted to ring back. Then he changed his mind and helped himself to a couple of bananas from the fruit bowl.

Outside, on the square of lawn between the house and the towpath, he demolished the second of the bananas before stepping through the squeaking gate and heading north along the path. The tide was high, lapping at the sea wall, and as the slap-slap of the halyards in the dinghy park began to recede, he could hear the honk of brent geese, way out on the harbour. Come May, he thought, these birds would have gone, returning to their breeding grounds in Siberia. By October, they'd be on the harbour again with their young, part of the slow pulse of the passing months that Faraday recognised more and more as a kind of solace. No matter how bad the job got, the geese would always be back.