Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

"I don't care a fuck what you think," she said. "If it's that important, I'll send you a cheque." She put the phone down, shaking her head. "Arsehole."

"Who was that?"

"Guy called Mackenzie. Turns out he backed my movie. Now he's asking fifty per cent of the profits. Profits? How gross is that?"

"What else did he say?"

"He said he wanted to see it. I told him my pleasure. Then he started up with all this nonsense about marketing and copyright and selling the arse off the thing."

"Was that his phrase or yours?"

"Please, Joe? Does that sound like me?"

"In some moods, yes."

"Really? Am I that horrible?"

"Tell me more." Faraday nodded at the phone.

"That's about it." Eadie helped herself to a biscuit. "Doug had obviously sold him the video on the phone and he couldn't wait to turn it into a big fat royalty cheque. So I told him to bugger off. You probably heard."

Faraday nodded. He'd only met Doug Hughes once. Eadie had spotted him in a pub they sometimes used and had insisted on doing the introductions. Hughes had been with a striking-looking blonde, and on the evidence of five minutes conversation Faraday had rather liked him.

"How does Doug know Mackenzie?"

"Haven't a clue. The man must be seriously wealthy. Doug's silly around that kind of money, always has been. He can't help himself.

Moth to the flame."

"Have you any idea what Mackenzie does for a living?"

"None. Apart from ripping off Aussie producers."

"He's a drug dealer." Faraday saw no point in keeping secrets any more.

"Mackenzie? You're serious?"

"Very. You're really telling me you didn't know?"

"Hadn't a clue. All I saw was the cheque. Without the seven grand, none of this would ever have happened." She stared at him a moment.

"You want to see the final cut?"

She had a VHS of the video in her day sack. While Faraday poured the tea, she knelt in front of the player and turned on the television.

Moments later, Faraday turned to find himself looking at a close-up of a needle probing for a vein. Eadie sat back on the carpet, totally absorbed. When Faraday joined her with the tea, she leant back into him for support.

"The next bit's incredible," she murmured. "Just you watch."

Winter had spent most of the day calculating exactly when he'd phone Mackenzie. Too early, and he might have time to make inquiries of his own. Too late, and he'd miss the boat.

The ferry left at 11.00 p.m. According to Jimmy Suttle, Trudy, her mum, and Mike Valentine were having an early farewell supper at a restaurant they both liked over in Chichester. After that, they'd be running Trude back to Buriton. One last visit to pick up some things from the house in Waterlooville, then they'd be heading down the A3 to the Continental Ferry port.

Around six, Winter had decided, would be perfect. Now, with news of another British squaddie killed in action on the car radio, Winter made the call. Mackenzie answered at once. He must have keyed the number into his directory.

"Mr. Winter." He was laughing. "That's twice in less than a week."

"We need to meet."

"Why?"

"There's something I need to get off my chest. Informal would be better, if you know what I mean. Where are you?"

"In the office."

"Kent Road?"

"That's right."

"Stay there. I'll be ten minutes."

Winter didn't hang on for confirmation. Across the road, he could see the big gated mansion that Mackenzie had turned into his corporate headquarters. Since his last visit, the walls of adjacent properties had attracted yet more graffiti. On Bazza's smoothly plastered battlements, still nothing.

Half expecting Bazza to leave, Winter listened to the news before making his way across the road. Mackenzie answered the door in person.

He was wearing nicely cut jeans and a plain white T-shirt. The laughter had gone.

"This better be important," he said. "I've cancelled a meeting because of you."

"Upstairs, then?"

Winter walked past him and began to mount the staircase. At the top, Mackenzie pushed past him. The lights were on in the office at the end of the corridor. Winter didn't wait for an invitation before he sat down.

"You've pissed me off," he said softly. "Big time."

"Yeah? Why's that, then?"

"What happened to Suttle."

"He was out of order."

"Wrong. Baz. You were out of order. The guy could have got badly hurt."

"Shame he wasn't. Chris told me he went down like a squinny. What's the problem these days? Can't recruit the right kind of blokes?

Listen, if this is all you've come to say then you'd better fuck off now. What happened on Saturday was down to that mate of yours. Or maybe even you."

"Me? How does that work?"

"Didn't I warn you? Didn't I tell you about my Trude?"

"Your Trude?" It was Winter's turn to laugh.

"Yeah, my Trude. Got a problem with that?"

"Not at all." Winter sat back, then glanced at his watch. "I see Mike Valentine's off."

"That's right. Tonight's ferry. Fuengirola, lucky bastard."

"What's lucky about that? The place is full of low life, the way I hear it. Dealers. Expats. Men with too much money and no taste."

"Yeah? Money get up your nose, does it? No fucking surprise, the pittance you guys pull. No, Mike'll be nicely set up. Even speaks Spanish. Can you believe that? Pompey boy?"

"Still be in touch, will you?"

"Definitely."

"Business? Or old times' sake?"

"Both. Mike's a natural. Bloke's got class. You can see it. He treats people right. He charms them. He can make money just by the way he smiles."

"You're right. And not just money." Winter produced a carefully folded A4 sheet and tossed it onto Mackenzie's desk. "Read that."

"What is it?"

"Have a look and you'll find out."

Wary now, Mackenzie reached for the document. Winter watched him flatten it on the desk. The top line gave him the clue. Halfway down the page, he looked up.

"Where did you get this?"

"Mist's place."

"She gave it to you?"

"I lifted it." Winter smiled at him.

"You're talking bollocks. She's been there all week."

"Not on Saturday she wasn't."

"You're winding me up."

"Not at all. The Lanesborough up in town. Lift the phone. Here's the number. Suite fourteen. Booked in the name of Mr. and Mrs.

Valentine."

"Mike?" He still didn't believe it.

"The very same."

"Cunt." His voice was barely audible. He'd gone back to the paternity certificate. Finally he looked up, a strange gleam in his eyes. "This better be some kind of joke, mush, else…" He nodded towards the door, dismissing Winter, then reached for the phone.

Eadie and Faraday had spent the best part of two hours discussing the video. Faraday had watched it twice; he wanted to make sure his first impressions were correct. The original material had been powerful enough images he'd found genuinely shocking but Eadie's editing had shaped these pictures in such a way that their cumulative impact was irresistible.

The sheer momentum of the thing was, to Faraday, beyond rational explanation. It had a passion, and a pulse, that seized you by the throat and never once let go. By the end he was, in turns, saddened, angered, and determined to do something positive. Sharing Daniel Kelly's story with the widest possible audience would be a very good start. Bang on doors. Spread the message. Force kids to the video machine. Whatever.

"I don't know how you did that," he told her. "It's totally beyond me."

"You think it's OK? Hits the mark?"

"I think it's horrible. And I think it definitely hits the mark."

"So all those rules I broke…?"

"Pain in the arse. Definitely."

"And Mackenzie?"

"You blagged seven grand of his money. Congratulations."

"Friends again, then?" She got up from the sofa and kissed him on the mouth. Then she paused. "What's the name of that boss of yours?"