Graham Hurley: Cut to Black

Now, Mackenzie seemed to be losing his bearings. His voice, light as ever, had begun to falter and he kept shaking his head as if something inside had come loose. He needed to find out for sure, he kept saying.

Yet the last thing he seemed able to cope with was the truth.

"Did you?" he kept saying to Valentine. "Were you?"

"What?"

"Shagging? Back then? Before Trudy?" He looked wildly from one to the other, wanting a cast-iron denial, wanting his life preserved in the order he liked it best. This sudden possibility that he'd got it wrong all those years, that he'd been tossed leftovers from the feast that was Misty Gallagher, was visibly hurting him. He needed support, hard evidence, anything that put him back where he belonged. In charge.

Without warning, he reached up to the top bunk and seized Valentine's overnight bag. It was biggish, blue leather, badged with the BMW logo.

He turned it upside down and emptied the contents at Valentine's feet.

Then he was down on his hands and knees, hunting through the tangle of clothing. Winter recognised the book he'd found earlier at Misty's apartment. The Rough Guide to Croatia.

"What's this?" Mackenzie was staring up at Valentine, the book in his hand. "I thought you were going to fucking Spain?"

Valentine said nothing. Misty was flat on her back, the sheet still anchored to her chin, staring at the underside of the bunk above.

Mackenzie had returned to the contents of the bag, feeling around, looking for more clues, more paperwork, anything to put him out of his misery. Finally, he extracted a long white envelope.

"I'd have stuck one on him while he's still got the chance." Winter was nodding at the screen. "Bazza's lost it."

"Fuck-all evidence, though." It was French. "If we're still talking drugs."

"That'll be the least of it. Believe me."

Mackenzie had opened the envelope. He was back on his feet now, swaying with the roll of the ship. He unfolded a couple of sheets and took a tiny step backwards until he was directly under the light. His mouth began to move, shaping the contents of the letter. There was a second sheet of paper. He barely spared it a glance.

"Senj?" He was looking at Valentine.

"It's on the coast, Baz. Little holiday home. Brand new. Path down to the beach. Bit of land at the back. Friendly locals. You'll love it."

"Love it, fuck. You're moving there, aren't you? The pair of you?

Look." He thrust the letter into Valentine's face. "Five bedrooms, double garage. Trude moving out too, is she? Trude and that fucking twat boyfriend detective of hers? Shit, I'm stupid. Stupid. Stupid."

He bent to the floor again, plucked at a piece of clothing, came up with one of Misty's basques.

"Lucky dip, Baz." Valentine was still trying to see the funny side.

"Lucky dip, bollocks. Is that all you can say? After everything we've been through? Everything we've done together? Lucky fucking dip?"

The bellow of rage came through the wall into the adjoining cabin. It was Mackenzie. He'd grabbed the bottle of Bacardi. He swung wildly at the stanchion supporting the bunk. The glass smashed, leaving the neck of the bottle in Mackenzie's hand. Valentine had stepped backwards, pressing himself against the porthole.

"No, Baz," he kept saying. "Listen."

Mackenzie was staring at Misty. He looked like a man who'd suddenly found himself in a place he didn't recognise. Nothing made sense.

Nothing fitted. Some of the Bacardi had splashed on his jeans. The rest had ended up on the pile of clothes at his feet. He knelt again and abandoned the bottle, his hands moving blindly over the garments.

He lifted a T-shirt of Misty's and buried his face in it, breathing in, then balled the garment in his fist and let it drop. He looked up at her one last time, then dug in the pocket of his jeans. Winter caught the flare of the lighter, realised what would happen next.

"He's going to torch the place." He tore open the door of the cabin.

"Fucking no way."

Valentine's cabin door was unlocked. Winter was first in. Mackenzie had set fire to the letter he'd found in the overnight bag and was holding it at arm's length. Any second now he was going to drop it onto the spirit-soaked pile of clothing on the floor.

Valentine, by the porthole, seemed mesmerised. Misty was screaming.

Winter hauled Mackenzie backwards, trying to grab his hand, but Mackenzie dropped the burning letter. There was a soft whoosh and a lick of blue flame as Winter ripped a blanket from the top bunk and began to smother the fire. The other DCs filled the tiny cabin. A smoke alarm began to wail.

"Arrest him," Winter yelled over his shoulder. "Get the cuffs on."

"What charge?"

Winter was still jumping on the blanket, the broken glass crunching beneath his shoes.

"Arson." He was running out of breath. "What do you fucking think?"

Faraday was back in the lounge, waiting for Joyce to reappear from the bathroom. At length, she stepped carefully downstairs. Cold water seemed to have brightened her mood.

"You mind if I ask you a question or two?" Faraday said.

"Sure, go ahead. Let's make a night of it."

"How long has it been going on? You and Harry Wayte?"

Joyce studied him a moment. "Are we on the record here? Do you want to caution me?"

"No. It's just a question."

"OK." She nodded. "Best part of a year."

"That's most of Tumbril."

"You're right. Though Harry came first." She smiled. "Always."

She said that she'd met him in the bar at Kingston Crescent. He'd been celebrating a Crown Court result on a contraband conspiracy. They'd had a few drinks and Harry had volunteered to drive her home.

"Here? To Southampton?"

"Sure. He's a gentleman. Thought I deserved a little attention."

They'd met a couple of times over the succeeding weeks, pubs and cafe-bars off the beaten track, often in Southampton. Pretty soon, Harry was turning up with a bottle or two in the evening. No need to waste money on other people's booze.

"And…?" Faraday was nodding at the stairs.

"Sure. He wanted it. I wanted it. The surprise was we fitted so well. Ever find that, Sheriff? That Eadie of yours?"

The affair had deepened in the autumn. Harry was married but his wife was out most nights, busy with a thousand little pursuits. His kids had gone. The house was empty. And Joyce was happy to make room in her life for two. No formal commitment. No talk of divorce and remarriage and all that shit. Just each other, three or four times a week. Great sex, great conversation, chance to cook for two.

"What did you talk about?"

"Everything. Me, him, my creep of a husband, his pudding of a wife, places we'd been, places we'd like to go."

"Together?"

"Sure."

"Like where?"

"Me? I had a thing about Marrakesh. Still do, matter of fact. Harry?

He wants to take me to Russia."

"Moscow?"

"Volgograd. Apparently there was a battle there."

"And you think you'll make it?"

"Sure. You want something bad enough, it'll happen."

Faraday nodded. Marta, he thought. And a year of stolen weekends.

"You mentioned conversation. What else do you talk about?"

"Everything. Is that a big deal?"

"It could be." He paused. "Does "everything" include the job?"

"Of course. Harry's pissed off, big time, and from what he tells me I don't blame him."

"Tumbril?"

For a moment, Joyce said nothing. This, they both knew, was where friendship parted company with something infinitely less elastic.

"I've mentioned it from time to time," she said carefully. "Heck, it's impossible not to."

"So he knows about the operation?"

"Sure. But I just confirmed a rumour. Nothing comes to Harry as a surprise."

"He told you he knew already?"