Graham Hurley: Cut to Black

The minutes dragged past. Misty stirred in her sleep, wrapping herself more tightly around Valentine. Their conversation earlier had told Winter absolutely nothing about either Mackenzie or the contents of the BMW X5 below. They were, on this evidence, a middle-aged couple with a lively sex life en route to some kind of holiday abroad. Only Misty's muttered "Good fucking riddance' as Gunwharf drifted past the porthole offered a glimpse of something more permanent.

By now, the steady roll of the ferry told Winter they were out in open water. One of the DCs had climbed onto the top bunk and had his eyes closed. The other two, French's idea, were playing cards. Suddenly, unnanounced, came a thunderous knocking at Valentine's cabin door.

Winter got to his feet, his eyes glued to the TV screen, and gave the dozing DC a shake.

"Get up," he hissed. "It's kicking off."

French was trying to suppress a laugh. Valentine had swung his legs out of the bunk and was standing in the middle of the cabin looking blearily at the door. Whatever dream he'd just abandoned must have been good because he was sporting a sizeable erection.

"Who is it?" he called.

Misty was up on one elbow now, the sheet clutched to her chin. There came another thump at the door, then a voice. Mackenzie. No attempt at disguise.

"Open this fucking door."

Valentine exchanged looks with Misty.

"Who is it?"

"Baz."

"What do you want?"

"You, mate. Open up, else I'll kick the fucker in."

Valentine was reaching for a towel. The erection was beginning to flag. When he shot a helpless look at Misty, she simply shrugged.

Valentine unlocked the door and stepped gracefully back as Mackenzie tumbled in. The manoeuvre reminded Winter of a bullfight he'd once seen in Segovia, the wounded animal charging blindly around, unpredictable, immensely dangerous. Caged in this tiny cabin, thought Winter, Mackenzie could only get worse.

"You're pissed, Baz." Valentine had shut the door again.

"Think so?"

Mackenzie snatched at the towel, then stood motionless, his eyes moving slowly from Valentine to the bunk. Misty was starting to laugh.

"You should have told us you were coming," she said lightly. "We could at least have been decent."

Faraday had nearly finished downstairs. There'd been nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the way of letters or calendar notes or scribbled reminders. Dialling 1471 had produced a London number, which Faraday wrote down, while the redial button took him through to a recorded message announcing that British Gas would be open again for enquiries at 8.00 a.m. When Faraday accessed the message tape, a woman's voice reminded Joyce that bowling had changed to Wednesdays, half seven, same place.

"I'm better than you might think," Joyce announced from the sofa. "Must be that goddam prairie adolescence. Queen of the Grand Islands bowl.

Winter of '78." She was drunk now, toasting him with the empty glass as he turned his attention to the drawers in her sideboard. After a while, she struggled off the sofa and made her way carefully towards the CD player. Not Peggy Lee this time but Sarah Vaughan.

Faraday eyed the stairs. He knew he had no choice, not if he was going to box this thing off, but he was aware of the first stirrings of doubt. There were going to be casualties here, whatever the result, and one of them was a relationship he cherished.

"Up you go, sweetie. I know you can't wait."

Joyce didn't care any more. She was back on the sofa, her legs folded beneath her, staring into nowhere as the music took her away. Faraday gave her a last backward glance.

"Bedside cabinet," she said tonelessly. "Window side. What the fuck."

She wouldn't look at him.

The bedroom was at the front of the house. Mirrored fitted units, floor to ceiling, lined the wall behind the door. The rest of the room was dominated by an enormous bed. The little cabinet beside it was a flat-pack unit, recently repainted, and on top was the stub of a candle, planted in a puddle of wax in a saucer.

In the top drawer, beneath a Boots bag, Faraday found a pile of letters. He sank onto the bed and sorted quickly through the envelopes. Same handwriting. Same postmark. Dates going back to December last year. He returned to the most recent of letters, knowing that he'd found what he'd come for. Here, he thought, was the relationship that had brought Tumbril to its knees.

He hesitated a moment, curiously loath to read the letter. He was fond of Joyce. She'd been a true friend, there for him, not simply as a stand-in for Vanessa but more recently, only days ago, when he'd felt himself going under. Friday night, at the restaurant, she'd kept his little boat afloat.

"Do it, sheriff."

Faraday looked round, feeling the stir of air. Joyce was standing in the open doorway, gazing across at him.

"You mind if…?" He showed her the envelope. He felt cheap, dirtied by the task he'd set himself.

"Not at all." Joyce shook her head. "You go right ahead."

Faraday slipped the letter out. There were three sheets, writing on both sides, black ink.

"Read me the first paragraph." It was Joyce again. "It's beautiful."

"Listen, Joyce, I'm not sure this '

"You owe me, sheriff. Just do it."

"OK." Faraday shrugged, bending to the letter, trying to decipher the hurried scrawl. "My angel," it began, 'you've made an old man very, very happy. Not just the sex. Not just last night and the night before that and me too knackered to drive the bloody car afterwards.

Not just the perfume and the ten cloves of garlic I had to explain. Not just waking up this morning and wondering where the hell you were. But everything since Christmas, and before that, and now, and God willing, forever. Blokes like me gave up on miracles years ago. Now this."

"There." Joyce was smiling. "I told you."

Faraday nodded, impressed.

"Beautiful," he agreed.

"Yep. And not just on paper, either. You want to tell me what law we've broken? Or do you do this kind of stuff for kicks?"

Faraday didn't answer. There was only one question left and they both knew it. At length, Joyce stepped carefully across. The mattress sighed under her weight and they sat motionless, side by side. Faraday could feel the heat of her body, hear the steady rasp of her breathing.

Finally, he returned the letter to its envelope, giving her the small, revelatory pleasure of naming this new man in her life.

"It's Harry, sheriff." She beamed at him, proud now, her face inches from his. "But you probably guessed that, eh? Being a detective?"

"He's going mad." It was Danny French, crouched in front of the monitor screen. He had a point.

Mackenzie, his broad back perfectly framed by the hidden video camera, was standing between the bunks in the cabin next door, eyeball to eyeball with Valentine. So far, there'd been no violence. Mackenzie had said his piece, produced his evidence, and simply wanted to know the truth. Had Valentine one of his best mates, one of his closest business partners, the man he'd trusted for most of his life really been shagging Misty Gallagher all this time? Or were they all the victim of some fucking evil wind-up? And if the latter was true, what exactly was he supposed to make of some poxy certificate suggesting that Trudy belonged not to him but to Valentine?

To none of these questions did Valentine appear to have any real answer. You're pissed, he kept telling Mackenzie. You're pissed, and you're upset, but there's nothing that a couple of hours decent kip couldn't sort out. Yes, he and Misty were seeing each other. That much was obvious. But what else did he expect a good-looking woman to do if the man in her life went off with some Italian bimbette? To this, Misty added a round of applause. Bazza had just thrown her onto the street. What kind of gratitude was that after everything she'd done for him?