Graham Hurley: Cut to Black

Joyce came to the door on his second knock. She was wearing a loose pair of tracksuit bottoms and a pink crew-neck top. The kitchen door was open at the end of the little hall and Faraday caught the tang of frying garlic.

"Sheriff…" She beamed up at him. "Hey, nice surprise. Come in.

You eaten at all. Only She frowned, looking down. "What the heck's that?"

"It's a warrant card, Joyce."

"You think I don't know who you are?" She looked up at him. "What is this?"

"Business, Joyce. We can do this two ways. We can have a chat and you can tell me what you know. Or' he nodded beyond her '- I can just get on with it."

"Get on with what?"

"Searching your house."

"I vote for talking." She stepped back. "You want a drink or anything, because sure as hell I do."

Faraday settled for a cup of tea. Joyce opened a new bottle of Bailey's. By the time the tea was brewed, she was on her second glass.

"I still don't get it." She reached for the milk jug. "You're telling me you've got a list there. Little moi is top of the list? Is that it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But why? How come? What makes you think I'm interested in talking to a scumbag like Mackenzie when we've just spent a year trying to nail him to the fucking wall?"

"No one says you've been talking to Mackenzie. It doesn't have to work like that."

"It doesn't, huh?" Her hand was shaking. Some of the milk slopped into the saucer. "So do us a favour, sheriff, just tell me how it does work."

Faraday had never associated Joyce with anger before. Even when the pressures at Highland Road had made everyone else lose it, she had always stayed calm, the still centre at the very heart of the storm.

Now, she could barely contain herself.

"Can I tell you something? I thought we were friends."

"We are friends, Joyce."

"Yeah, but real friends, friends who look out for each other, friends who care. All this shit… Where does it all come from?"

"It's a job, Joyce. It's what I'm paid for. The quicker we resolve it, the sooner' he shrugged 'everything gets back to normal."

"And you think that's possible? Take a look at yourself, Joe Faraday.

There are better ways of handling this. Ever think about the phone?

Little call to clear things up? Old times' sake?"

"It doesn't work that way."

"Sure. So I see. Go right ahead. Interrogation time. You want me to draw the curtains? You want to spill a little blood here? Have a real party?"

She sat back, nursing her empty glass. Apart from a nest of Beanie Babies, she seemed to occupy most of the sofa.

"Let's start with your husband."

"What about him?"

"He left you, didn't he? Went off with the probationer?"

"Sure. The lovely Bethany. One sweet babe."

"And now?"

"He wants to come home again. Just goes to show, doesn't it? Guys like him think only the young know about sex. Shame it's taken him this long to find out what he's missing. Poor child."

"So no chance of him coming back?"

"Absolutely none." She smiled at him, held her arms wide open. "Help yourself, sheriff. Meet a girl who knows a thing or two about hospitality."

Faraday ducked his head. The next bit, he knew, was going to be tricky.

"Is there anyone else?" he asked at last.

"Like who?"

"I've no idea. That's why I'm asking."

"You think I can't live without a man? You're right. I can't. Is it easy to find one? The kind of man that suits a girl like me? The kind of man who knows a thing or two? Right again. It isn't."

"So what do you do?"

"I look, Joe. I get out there and keep my fingers crossed and just sometimes I say a little prayer. Oh God, send me a man. You religious at all, Joe? Only it's true, it sometimes helps."

"You found a man?"

"I have. And he's lovely. In fact he's the loveliest thing I can imagine."

"Who is he?"

"No way." She was shaking her head.

"You're not going to tell me?"

"No."

For a moment, it occurred to Faraday that she might be fantasising.

Conversations like this could go on all night.

"What if I have a look round?"

That's your decision. It happens that I think you won't, but you might."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you're a decent man. And because you haven't got a search warrant."

"I can get one. And you know I wouldn't have to leave. A phone call would do it."

"Sure. And it would be the middle of tomorrow before the thing turned up. Are you planning that long a stay, Joe? Should we think again about something to eat?"

Faraday knew she was trying to get the better of him, to marshal those memories, all those long-ago debts of gratitude he undoubtedly owed her. She'd been tireless and big-hearted as his stand-in management assistant. After Vanessa had been killed in the car accident, Joyce had filled more holes than one.

Faraday reached in his pocket for his mobile.

"What are you doing, sheriff?"

"Phoning for a warrant."

"You're a callous bastard. You're stringing me along… Oh shit, why not? Go ahead. Help yourself."

She swung her legs up onto the sofa, then changed her mind and reached for the bottle. When she'd recharged the glass she raised it to her lips, eyeing him over the rim. Faraday hadn't moved.

"No clues, Joe." She sipped at the Bailey's. "You're on your own now."

The Le Havre ferry sailed ten minutes late. By midnight, with the lights of the mainland fast disappearing through the porthole, Winter was beginning to think that he'd got it wrong.

Valentine and Misty Gallagher had come straight down to the cabin with an overnight bag between them. Valentine had then disappeared, returning minutes later with two bottles of champagne and a litre of Bacardi. It was hard to be certain on the tiny black and white monitor screen, but the champagne looked like Krug.

With the other three DCs crouched on the bottom bunks, Winter had watched Misty undress and slide between the sheets while Valentine readied two crystal glasses from the overnight bag and opened a bottle of champagne. He was a tall man, well preserved, with a greying mop of curly hair, and when he slipped his shirt off, it was evident that he worked out. He'd handed the brimming glasses to Misty and climbed in beside her. They'd finished the first bottle by the time the ferry was easing away from the quay side and were making love when The Pride of Portsmouth slipped out through the harbour narrows.

The watching DCs monitored this performance with interest. Valentine was clearly in love with oral sex and it was obvious that Misty's inventiveness had survived the years of heavy-duty shagging with Bazza Mackenzie. It was, muttered one of the DCs, a bit like watching early porn: black and white and slightly fuzzy.

Now, forty minutes later, Misty and Valentine appeared to be asleep.

The lights in the cabin were still on but their eyes were closed, Misty's head nestled on Valentine's chest.

"What do you think, then?" Danny French was inspecting their own bottle of Scotch. Gulliver had left it on the tiny table under the porthole, a parting gift from Special Ops. It was a nice gesture, they all agreed, and it would be a shame to waste it.

As senior DC, the decision rested with Winter.

"Give it another half-hour." He was looking at his watch.

"Yeah, but who says Mackenzie's even on board? Weren't they supposed to bell you if he turned up and bought a ticket?"

Winter didn't answer. He'd got the promise of a phone call from one of the P amp;O clerks in the booking hall at the ferry port but told himself there were a million reasons why she might not have got through. Maybe she'd been snowed under with other punters. Maybe Mackenzie had given her some kind of runaround. Maybe he'd paid cash for a ticket and not given a name. Maybe she'd mislaid Winter's mobile number. Fuck knows.