Graham Hurley: Cut to Black

"Willard."

"No." She shook her head. "The uniformed guy."

"Secretan. He's a Chief Superintendent."

"First name?"

"Andy." He gazed at her. "Why?"

MONDAY, 24 MARCH 2003, 19.45

Faraday was late getting to the Sally Port Hotel. He stepped into the lobby, shedding his coat, already aware of the warm buzz of conversation from the nearby bar. Clerics were everywhere, robed in black. At the end of the corridor, Faraday found a small function room. A youth in a scarlet waistcoat was circulating with a tray of canapes and a waitress Faraday seemed to recognise was edging through the press of bodies, topping up wine glasses. The entire cathedral had emptied, Faraday thought, and decamped across the road.

"How are you?"

Faraday turned to find himself face to face with Nigel Phillimore.

"I'm fine."

"Better?"

"Yes." Faraday felt slightly embarrassed. "Thank you."

"Good." Phillimore took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Come and meet our guests."

For the next half-hour, Faraday did his best to disguise his ignorance about plainchant. Politeness urged him to compliment these men on their performance last night, but as soon as he could he shifted the conversation onto safer ground. He wanted to know about Tallinn, about Estonia, about the kind of life you might lead up there beside the Baltic, about the local bird life He was keen, as well, to sound them out about Portsmouth what they made of the city, what they'd tell their friends when they returned home and as the second glass of Cotes du Rhone settled peaceably on the excellent beef sandwiches, he realised he was enjoying himself.

Their music had been austere, almost chilling, but the Estonians had a warmth and curiosity that created an instant rapport. They liked Portsmouth. One of them even called it Pompey, the way you might refer to a favourite child. The place had spirit, he said, and lots of mischief. Plenty had happened here. You could feel it in the narrow streets and alleys around Old Portsmouth, in the sepia photos on the walls of the cafe down the road. He'd bought a couple of books and one day he'd definitely come back for a proper look. He had some Russian friends in St. Petersburg and he knew they'd like it too. All Russians, he said, were pirates at heart and they'd definitely feel at home in Pompey.

The thought amused Faraday, and when another of the Estonians enquired about his job, he saw no point in keeping it a secret.

"Cop?" said one, rolling his eyes.

"Detective?" said another.

Faraday nodded, fending them off when they pressed him for war stories, but their enthusiasm loosened his tongue further still and he was happy to leave his card when the time came for him to leave.

"Give me a ring if you ever come back." He shook the circle of outstretched hands. "Be a pleasure to show you around."

Back in the lobby, he searched for his coat. There was no one behind reception but he caught sight of the waitress with the canapes coming towards him with an empty tray. Her face again. He knew he'd seen it before.

She led him down to the cloakroom, pushing the door open and stepping back to let him retrieve his coat. Room 6, he thought. The afternoon he'd first met Wallace and rung down for room service.

Struggling into his coat, Faraday watched the woman disappearing towards the kitchen. Then, struck by another thought, he called her back.

"Is the manager around by any chance?" he asked.

"Yes. I think he's in his office."

"Might I have a word?" He smiled at her and dug in his pocket for a card. "Detective Inspector Faraday. Major Crimes Team."

Winter found the techie from Special Ops waiting for him on the quay side He'd phoned him half an hour earlier from Kingston Crescent, straight out of a meeting with Cathy Lamb, and the man had assured him that everything was in place. His name was Gulliver. Thanks to P amp;O, he'd taken the day crossing to Le Havre and back, plenty of time to install mikes and a tiny video camera wired through to the adjoining cabin. All Winter and his mates had to do was make themselves at home next door and wait for the curtain to go up.

Now, Gulliver hurried Winter towards the gantry that offered foot passengers access to the ferry. The ship towered above them, tall as a block of flats, forbidding in the spill of light from the quay side floods. The last of the inbound lorries were still grinding off the ramp at the bow, but the turn round times were tight and the waiting queue of vehicles in the embarkation park would soon be loading.

Inside the ferry, cleaners were hoovering around the reception desk.

Gulliver had already made his number with the ship's purser, a middle-aged woman with nice legs and a busy manner. She shook Winter's outstretched hand, then glanced at her watch. Time was evidently moving on.

"I'm still not clear how many of you we're expecting."

"Six. Myself and five others."

"They'll be here soon?"

"Two have already arrived, both plain clothes." It was Gulliver. "I put them in the cabin."

"Really? What about the rest?"

Winter took over. Danny French, the other DC from the squad, would be here any minute. Winter had left him at Kingston Crescent, looking for his passport.

"He doesn't need a passport. Unless you plan to get off."

"It's a contingency, that's all." Winter was at his smoothest. "The other two guys are from Scenes of Crime."

"And they're the ones who need access to the vehicle decks?"

"Please." Winter glanced at Gulliver. "You arranged for a fix on Valentine's motor?"

"I did it this afternoon on the way over. The loading officer's got the details. He'll let us know the lane number and access door as soon as they're through down below."

The purser looked at her watch again.

"Are these Scenes of Crime people in uniform? Only our passengers might get a little bit ' "No." Winter shook his head. "They're both plain clothes. They belled me half an hour ago. They're in a white van. It's all booked through. In fact they're probably in the car park now."

"And they'll liaise with you?"

"Yeah." Winter nodded. "Once we've sorted Mr. Valentine I'll give them a ring and they can come down to the cabin. They'll need Valentine's car keys before they start on his motor."

The purser nodded. She was looking thoughtful now.

"What does "sorted" mean?" she said at last.

The traffic was light on the motorway out of the city. The rain had gone through hours ago and Faraday could see a fat yellow moon rising in the east. The wind was cold through the open window and there were torn shreds of cloud over the distant shadows of Portchester Castle.

At the top of the harbour, Faraday took the Southampton arm of the motorway, easing into the slow lane for the long ascent through Portsdown Hill. He couldn't be sure, not absolutely sure, but his instinct told him that it was too good a clue to ignore. His whole career had been built on moments like this, a scrap of a memory tucked away and suddenly retrieved. He knew it needed, at the very least, explanation. He sensed, beyond that, the possibility that it might bring this whole sorry episode to some kind of closure. Closure, he thought, was all too exact a term the kind of word a psychiatrist might use — and he shuddered to think what the next couple of hours might bring.

Twenty minutes later he took the motorway exit for Southampton's eastern suburbs, finding himself in a tangle of roundabouts and trading estates. He drove around for a while looking for a landmark he recognised, eventually finding a pub called the Battle of Britain. From here, a slight hill led down to the housing estate. The road into the estate was on the right. A couple more turns and he'd be looking for the house with Joyce's Datsun in the drive. From that point on, providing he'd got this thing right, there'd be no turning back.