Graham Hurley: Cut to Black

Twice he reached for a pen and scribbled himself a note. At the end, he nodded.

"Powerful," he murmured. "You've got permissions for all this stuff?"

"Every last frame."

"And what happens now?"

Eadie explained about distribution. It would be going into schools, youth groups, colleges, anywhere an audience could spare twenty-five minutes of their busy, busy lives.

"They'd be crazy not to."

"That's my feeling." Eadie knelt to the player and retrieved the cassette. "You haven't asked me about the funding yet."

"Should I?"

"Well, yes. The way it works, I had to raise half the budget under my own steam. That meant hundreds of letters, phone calls, tantrums, you name it. In the end, I got 5000 from the Police Authority, 7000 from a businessman donated through a cut-out, and about 2000 from other sources.

"Cut-out?"

"My ex-husband. He's an accountant. Mr. Bountiful wanted to stay out of it." She smiled and slipped the video cassette into its plastic box. "With my 14,000, I fronted up to the local partnership. They match-fund. It's government money, as I'm sure you know."

Secretan nodded. Eadie could see he hadn't a clue where any of this might lead.

"So?"

"So I end up with 28,000, which is fine, and I put together what you've just seen. You think it works?"

"I think it's extremely effective. In fact I'd go further. I think it's bloody excellent."

"Good. Unfortunately, there's a problem."

"How come?"

"The guy with the seven grand turns out to be called Bazza Mackenzie."

Secretan allowed himself a small, private smile. There was indeed a problem.

"This film is co-sponsored by Mackenzie?"

"That's right. And in the poshest company." She smiled. "As you can see."

"Why Mackenzie? What was in it for him?"

"Lots, the way he figured it. That's why I told him no deal."

"When was this?"

"Yesterday. He was after a share of the profits. I pointed out there won't be any profits."

"Do you know what Mackenzie does' Secretan frowned 'for a living?"

"Now I do, yes."

"And do you know he's just been arrested for arson? On a cross-Channel ferry?"

Eadie thought about this development for a moment or two. In essence, it changed nothing.

"The fact remains he paid for the thing. Or helped to."

"Indeed." Secretan nodded. He pushed back his chair and went across to the window again. "We're talking about J-J, aren't we?"

"Yes. He's on police bail. Pending further inquiries."

Secretan said nothing. Eadie watched him at the window, deep in thought. At length, he turned back to her.

"Great film," he extended a hand, 'and outstanding camera work Eadie got to her feet and shook his hand. Secretan started to laugh.

"I meant the video." His hand was still out. "There are one or two other people who ought to take a look."

The entrance to the RSPB bird sanctuary on Farlington Marshes lies at the end of a gravel track that runs beside the main east-west motorway at the top of the city. Most birds are driven south by the incessant thunder of traffic, feasting on the rich mud flats that ring the tongue of salt marsh extending deep into Langstone Harbour. A scrap of land off the slip road from the motorway offers parking for visitors to the sanctuary. Faraday was there with five minutes to spare.

At length, eager for something to take his mind off the imminent encounter, he got out of the Mondeo and looked around. The gravel was littered with broken glass from yet another vehicle break-in and he kicked the worst of it away before slipping his Leica binoculars from their case and propping his elbows on the car roof.

On the second sweep, he caught sight of a pair of lapwings, windmilling above the salt marsh. He'd glimpsed them earlier from the road, driving down beside the harbour, and there they were, in perfect close-up. Absorbed by the small drama of their flight, he failed to hear Harry Wayte's arrival. Only when the DI got out of his car and crunched towards him across the gravel did Faraday turn round.

"Walk?" Wayte set off down the track towards the picket gate at the end without a backward glance.

All too conscious of the tiny Nagra snugly taped to the small of his back, Faraday followed. For the second time in twelve hours, he felt wretched. Even now, in ruins, Tumbril had the power to overwhelm him.

It was a beautiful morning, a cloudless blue sky with a feather of breeze but scarcely a ripple on the water. Away to the south, barely visible on the horizon, the white smudge of the Bargemaster's House.

Wayte pushed through the gate at the end of the track. From here, a path on top of the sea wall circled the edge of the reserve. The two men had yet to break the silence.

"Why go bothering her, Joe?" Wayte said at last. If anything, he sounded reproachful.

"Because we just lost a year's worth of work and God knows how much money. But then you'd know that, Harry."

"I would?"

"Of course you would."

"Why's that?"

Faraday brought Harry Wayte to a halt. Awkwardness had given way to anger. This man had just destroyed a year's work. No point, he thought, in ducking the obvious.

"You're not denying that you and Joyce…?"

"Have been shagging? Christ no, Joe. Far from it."

"And I gather you discussed Tumbril."

"Is that what she told you?"

"Yes." Faraday gazed at him, waiting for some kind of comment. Wayte didn't say a word. "You're telling me you knew nothing about Tumbril}"

"Nothing that every other bugger in the force didn't know. You blokes have been chasing your tails. If you're trying to set me up for the fall or Joyce then you'd better think again."

"So you never discussed the operation?"

"Pillow talk? Tumbril? Forget it."

"OK." Faraday had never expected this to be easy. "Then let's pretend you've had a lapse of memory. Let's imagine you've got what Nick Hayder's got a bloody great hole instead of perfect recall. Let's even pretend that I was right, that you did discuss Tumbril, that in fact you knew everything. Are you with me?" The question drew a wary nod from Wayte. "OK, so you've had dealings with Mackenzie before. I checked the records this morning. You've been passed over for DCI.

You're pissed off with the job and you can't wait to leave. You also, as we all know, think Tumbril's a complete waste of space. Why?

Because the way you see it, Mackenzie helps keep the peace. You may have a point, Harry. You may even be right. But that's not it, is it?

Because the last thing you do in this job is go telling tales to the enemy."

"Enemy?" Wayte threw his head back and began to laugh. "Are we talking the same bloke here? The hooligan I nicked for affray twenty years back?"

"Yes." Faraday nodded. "Nine million quid's worth of hooligan if you want the exact figure."

"And you really think I've been mouthing off to him? Marking his card?"

"Yes."

"Can you prove it?"

The question had been a long time coming. Faraday took Wayte by the arm but Wayte shook him off. The two men began to walk again.

"Professional Standards are mounting a major investigation," Faraday said. "That'll take months, Harry. They'll turn everyone over me, you, Joyce, all of us."

"And Willard, too. He was SIO, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"So how come you think they can tie any of this to me?"

"Because you'll have been careless, Harry, as well as greedy. There'll be a trace. There always is. And somewhere down the line, sooner or later, they'll find it."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm asking you to have a think, Harry. For the record, I've got you down as a bloody good cop. I don't agree with everything you've said lately but you wouldn't expect me to."

Wayte nodded, then gazed out over the harbour. Tempers had cooled. To Faraday's surprise, this was turning into a negotiation.