Graham Hurley: Cut to Black

"Sure."

"And you believed him?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"Because he's a detective, Joyce. And a bloody good one. Detectives lie all the time. You know that. It's part of the MO."

"So you're telling me I should have kept my mouth shut?"

"I'm telling you it might have been better to stick to Marrakesh.

You're in the shit now, Joyce. And so is Harry."

"You going to talk to him?"

"Somebody will."

"Officially?"

"Afraid so."

"You want me to phone him? Stand him by?"

"You'll do that anyway."

"Too damn right I will." She smiled at him. "You mind me asking you a question?"

"Not at all."

"What brought you here tonight? Why me?"

Faraday studied her for a long moment. Then he explained about the phrase Mackenzie had used in the conversation with Wallace, a phrase that could only have come from the earlier briefing on Whale Island.

Punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor.

"Coincidence, sheriff?"

"Doesn't work. Not in real life. If it looks like a duck, odds are it is a duck."

"But there were four people at that briefing. I can see them now. I'm counting. So why me?"

Faraday paused again. No detective in his right mind would answer a question like this.

"I gave you a lift last week," he said at last. "I dropped you off in town. Remember?"

"Sure… and I saw that receipt on your dashboard. The Sally Port.

Room six. You know what I said to Harry that night? I said Harry, Joe Faraday's screwing some woman in a hotel in Old Portsmouth. And you know what Harry said? He said good luck to him."

"Did you give him the room number? The date?"

"Probably. This girl's a stickler for detail. Part of my charm." She paused. The smile had returned, warmer this time. She put her hand on Faraday's arm. "Tell me something, sheriff."

"What's that?"

"Was it true about the woman? Room six?"

TUESDAY, 25 MARCH 2003, 07.$8

Faraday awoke a minute or two before eight to find Eadie already gone.

A note on the pillow said she'd departed on a mission. An invitation to lunch at a Southsea restaurant followed, sealed with a flamboyant kiss.

For once, Faraday resisted the temptation to turn on the bedside radio.

The war, as far as he could gather, had turned into a showcase for American technology, inch-perfect uppercuts delivered from hundreds of miles away thanks to the miracles of laser targeting and GPS. Sooner rather than later, American armoured columns would thunder into Baghdad, Bush would declare peace, and then in all probability — the real war would begin.

The big, bare living room was already bathed in sunshine. In the kitchenette Faraday was hunting for a fresh box of tea bags when he caught the trill of his mobile.

"Faraday?" It was Harry Wayte. "What the fuck's going on?"

Harry wasted no time on small talk. He'd had a call from Joyce. Last night's little visit had been totally out of order. What kind of copper took advantage of a friendship to go banging around in someone else's private life?

Twice, Faraday tried to interrupt, to explain himself, to put everything into some kind of context, but he knew there was no point.

"You want a meet?" he managed at last.

"Too fucking right, I do. And nowhere near the nick, either."

"Car park on Farlington Marshes? Half ten?"

"I'll be there."

Wayte rang off, leaving Faraday gazing at the mobile. He knew with total certainty that Harry Wayte had blown Tumbril not just part of it, but all of it. He walked across to the window and stared out. High tide, he thought numbly, watching the water lapping at the landing stage on Spit Bank Fort. He stood motionless for a moment or two, wondering whether Gisela Mendel was in residence, whether she, too, was up and half-dressed, gazing out at the makings of a tricky day.

Faraday returned to the kitchenette and retrieved his mobile. Willard answered his call on the second ring. He was still at home in Portsmouth but was due to leave for Winchester any minute. Faraday kept it short. He had compelling evidence that the Tumbril disaster was down to Harry Wayte. And now Harry wanted a meet.

"Who with?"

"Me."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Half ten."

"How sure are you? About Harry?"

"Very sure."

"Stay there. I need to talk to someone."

Willard was back on the phone within minutes. Faraday was perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of tea.

"Where are you at the moment?"

"Eadie's place. South Parade." He gave Willard the address.

There was a brief pause. Then Willard was back on the line.

"Someone'll be round within the hour. Face you might recognise."

"Like who?"

"Graham Wallace."

"Wallace? Why?"

"I want you to wear a wire to the meet." Willard wasn't interested in arguments. "I'm going to sort that bastard Wayte if it's the last thing I do. Wind him up, Joe, Press his buttons. I want evidence. I want the thing wrapped up by lunchtime. You hear what I'm saying?"

It took Eadie Sykes the best part of half an hour to dupe the VHS cassette she needed at Ambrym. With the dub under way, she checked her watch, wondering whether it was too early to risk a call to Kingston Crescent. One way or another, she was determined to prise J-J free from the threat of further police action. Given the prospects for the video, it was the least she owed him.

Secretan's name took Eadie through to a woman who appeared to be in charge of the Chief Supt's diary. She had a light Ulster accent and wanted to know how pressing a need she had to talk to her boss.

"Very pressing," Eadie told her. "If he's there, just mention a name."

"Yours?"

"Daniel Kelly. I've made a video about him and I think Mr. Secretan should take a look."

The assistant put Eadie on hold. Then it was suddenly Secretan himself on the line.

"Eadie Sykes?"

"That's me. I was just wondering '

"Where are you?"

"Down the road."

"I can spare you a couple of minutes. Now would be good."

It was less than a mile to the police station at Kingston Crescent.

Eadie left the Suzuki in a supermarket car park across the road and found a uniformed WPC waiting for her at the front desk. Secretan's office was on the first floor. The woman with the Ulster accent offered her a cup of tea or coffee.

"Coffee, please. Black."

Secretan appeared from his office and stood aside as Eadie stepped in.

He gestured at the chair in front of his desk and opened the window.

"Beautiful day. Far too nice to be banged up in here." He turned back into the room. "What can I do for you?"

Eadie told him about the video. At the mention of J-J and his contribution to the camera work and the research, he nodded.

"You're talking about Joe Faraday's boy?"

"Yes." She hesitated. "Joe and I are good friends."

"Is that something I should be aware of? Is it' he smiled at her 'germane?"

"I've no idea. I just thought I'd get it out of the way." She plunged a hand into her day sack and produced the video cassette. "This is the final cut, minus the funeral."

"What do you do? Leave a space?"

"Yes."

"Bit like real life, then."

"Exactly." Eadie was beginning to warm to this man. He was down to earth, real, and he had an easy sense of humour. "Do you want to see it?"

"Now?"

"Why not?"

Secretan glanced at his watch, then left the office. Eadie strained to catch the brief conversation next door, then Secretan was back again.

"We've got forty minutes, tops," he said. "The machine's down in the corner. Best if you do the honours."

Eadie loaded the cassette and resumed her seat. She must have seen the video dozens of times by now but in new company it always felt a subtly different experience. Secretan sat in silence through the viewing.