Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

A mile from the Bargemaster's House, the towpath ducked inland around the jetty where the dredgers discharged their sand and gravel, and Faraday paused in the windy darkness. He was now certain about the phrase of Mackenzie's that had lodged in his memory. He could even picture the moment when he'd first heard it not yesterday in Willard's Jaguar outside the hotel, but days earlier, at Tumbril HQ on Whale Island.

For Faraday's benefit, Prebble had devoted the best part of the morning to profiling Mackenzie. The young accountant had led the new DI step by step through the target's life, exploring the short cuts he'd taken, explaining the way he'd turned casual drug use into a multi-million-pound fortune, introducing the professional friends he'd picked up on the way. Then, towards the end of this impressive presentation, had come a sudden intervention from Imber. Something had angered him. Maybe the nerve of the man. Maybe the sheer scale of Mackenzie's success. Whatever the reason, he'd left no doubt that it was the business of Tumbril to strip Mackenzie of his assets. That way, Imber had said, he'd be back where he'd begun: a punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor.

Seconds later, thanks to Joyce, Faraday had been looking at a sheaf of wedding photos, Mackenzie's daughter surrounded by dozens of Pompey's finest. He could still remember the plump, moneyed faces beaming at the camera outside the cathedral but it was the earlier phrase that stuck in his mind. A punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor.

Faraday turned and began to make his way back towards the distant twinkle of the Bargemaster's House, wondering who in that room had passed it on. He could visualise the three faces around the table:

Prebble, Imber, Joyce. Why on earth would any of them betray Tumbril to Mackenzie?

MONDAY, 24 MARCH 2003, 09.35

Faraday was late getting to Kingston Crescent, delayed by an accident in Milton. Knocking at Willard's door, he stepped into the Det-Supt's office to find Brian Imber and Martin Prebble already sitting at the conference table. With Willard still at his desk, locked into a particularly difficult phone call, Joyce was busy in the adjacent kitchen.

"Sheriff?" She'd stolen up behind him.

Faraday made way for the tray of coffees and sat down at the table.

Imber wanted to know what was going on. All three of them had been denied entry at the Whale Island guardhouse. More alarming still, they'd had to surrender their security passes.

"All in good time, Brian." Willard had joined them at last. He took the seat at the head of the table and winced when he tasted the coffee.

Joyce rarely used less than two spoonfuls of instant.

Imber was still looking at Faraday. Already Faraday could sense the suspicions shaping behind the tight smile. The collapse of Tumbril, he thought, had wreaked havoc. And one of the casualties might well be his friendship with this man.

Willard opened the meeting with a surprisingly chaotic account of the way they'd tried to sting Mackenzie. Faraday couldn't work out whether it was embarrassment or simple exhaustion, but it was only slowly that the real shape of the entrapment swam into focus. With Willard's preamble complete, it was Imber inevitably who sought clarification.

"Mackenzie was after the fort?"

"Indeed."

"Which was or wasn't for sale?"

"Was, as far as he was concerned."

"But for real, later? Because of the woman's circumstances?"

"That's correct."

"So what happened?"

This time, Willard was brisk. The meet had been set up for yesterday lunchtime. Minimum back-up kept the operation details tight. Wallace and Mackenzie met in the bar, then went through to the restaurant. The subsequent conversation was monitored and recorded. Half an hour into the meal, it became obvious that Wallace was blown. Not just Wallace, but Tumbril itself. Game, set and match to Mr. Mackenzie.

"I've just been talking to the CPS." Willard nodded towards the phone on his desk. "They want the operation discontinued. From here on in, they regard Tumbril as tainted."

"Tainted?" Faraday had never seen Imber so angry. "Is that why we were turned away this morning? Because you guys fucked up the covert?"

"Steady on, Brian." It was Willard. "This isn't easy for any of us."

"I'm sure it isn't, sir. I'm just curious, that's all. We arrive at work. We're denied access. The guy on the gate says the office has been sealed, guards posted, locks changed, the whole nine yards. That makes it a crime scene, doesn't it?"

"Yes." Willard nodded. "It does."

"Brilliant. I go home Friday night thinking we're getting somewhere at last. I've seen the stuff that Martin's prepared for you, the asset statement, and to me it's starting to look good so good I took my boys to London yesterday and never gave Tumbril a moment's thought. That's rare, believe me. Then this morning comes along, and I find the whole thing's collapsed. Bang, nothing left, year zero. Not only that but we're all under suspicion for blowing a sting about which we know absolutely nothing."

"What makes you think that?"

"Forgive me, sir, but I don't think you've thought this through. Our records will be seized, our e-mails, our phone logs, everything. Are you telling me this is some kind of exercise?"

"Not at all. Damage limitation might be closer."

"Damage to what? To whom?"

"To Tumbril. To us all. To the force in general. I repeat: Mackenzie knows everything. That means someone must have told him. And that means we have to find out who."

Imber fell silent for a moment. He was far too experienced a policeman to doubt for a moment the course of the next few weeks. With this much egg on Tumbril's face, someone had to start the cleanup.

"Are we suspended?" he asked at last. "Only it might be nice to know."

"No." Willard shook his head. "Mr. Alcott and I considered it but for the moment we don't believe there's a need."

"So who heads the inquiry?" Imber was looking at Faraday.

"Don't ask me, Brian." Faraday felt helpless. "I'm as much in the frame as you are."

"More, sir, with respect. You were there yesterday. Presumably you were in on the setting-up."

Willard stirred. "And so was I, Brian, if that's any consolation. This is getting us nowhere."

"Mr. Willard?" Prebble had raised a hand. "I know I'm not really in the loop here but it's not clear to me where this leaves the operation."

"Nowhere. I just told you. The CPS have knocked it on the head."

"So…" He was frowning, trying to follow the logic. "We never move against Mackenzie?"

"That's right."

"Or his solicitors? Accountants? All those nominees?"

"Right again. Unless the CPS have second thoughts."

"That's mad. More than a year's graft? That's insane."

"I agree."

Prebble looked sideways at Imber, a mute appeal for support, but Imber appeared to be in shock. His face, always lean, seemed to have caved in on itself. Here was a man, Faraday thought, who's just seen his life's work demolished in less time than it took him to shave in the morning. Nailing Mackenzie, in Imber's own words, was the closest he'd ever got to ripping up this evil by the roots. Now, Tumbril's prime target was beyond reach.

Willard was mapping the road ahead. Given the potential fallout from Tumbril, the Chief had instructed the Professional Standards Department to conduct a thorough investigation. Every member of the Tumbril team, including Willard himself, would in due course be required to make themselves available for interview. In the meantime, everyone with the exception of Prebble would be reassigned to other duties.

This time it was Joyce who raised a hand.

"I vote for a wake." She was looking at Faraday. "That's the least Tumbril owes us."