Graham Hurley: Cut to Black

"You know I'm retiring in September?" Wayte asked at last. "Joyce tell you that?"

"She didn't but you did, Harry. Couple of days ago? Up in the bar at Kingston Crescent?"

"Did I? Shit…" He pulled a face, not the least embarrassed. "And did I tell you I can't bloody wait?"

"That, too."

"Bugger me… I must be getting old."

"Happens, Harry."

Faraday brought them both to a halt again. Metres from the sea wall, a pair of dunlin were loitering with intent amongst the seaweed on the foreshore. Faraday watched them for a moment, then he reached under his anorak and turned off the recorder.

Wayte had followed his every movement. The rueful smile had disappeared.

"Bastard," he said softly.

"I've turned it off, Harry, not on. You want to check?"

"Bastard," he repeated.

Faraday studied him a moment, then shrugged. He was doing this man a big favour. Whether he chose to see it that way was his problem.

"I went down to the Sally Port the other night and had a little chat to the manager. He remembers you coming in on Saturday, Harry. You wanted to know about the occupant of room six on Wednesday last. You made it official and so he told you. Guy called Graham Wallace, he said. Gave you his home address, car registration, credit card details, the lot. That was a bit over the top, Harry. All Mackenzie really needed was the name plus the fact that I'd called in to see him." Faraday took a last look at the dunlin, then patted Wayte on the arm. "You've got my mobile number, Harry. Give me a ring."

Faraday was back in his office at Kingston Crescent, waiting for a chance to see Willard, when his mobile began to ring. He checked the number. Harry Wayte.

"Harry?"

"Me. Listen, you alone?"

"Yes."

"I've had a bit of a think about this morning. Fact is, mate, I'm up to here with it."

"With what?"

"The poxy job. I'm binning it. Early retirement. I'll be doing the paperwork this afternoon."

"Harry' Faraday had pushed his chair back from the desk 'are you sure you've thought this through?"

"Yeah… But listen, Joe, the way I see it is this." He began to talk about his current caseload, how few of the jobs were going anywhere, and as he did so Faraday was doing the sums. He and Wayte, both DIs, were on the same pay grade. By handing in his ticket six months early, Faraday estimated Wayte would be kissing goodbye to 2.0,000 worth of commutation. When Wayte paused for breath, Faraday went through the sums with him. In fairness, it was the least he could do.

Wayte listened, then cut Faraday short.

"Joe, I'm not deaf. I heard what you said this morning. Twenty grand?

What makes you think I can't make that up elsewhere?"

Faraday stared at his mobile.

"What did you just say?"

"You heard me. We never had this conversation but twenty grand's fuck all in some circles, as you well know." He began to laugh. Then the phone went dead.

Willard's office was across the corridor.

"Joe." The Det-Supt barely looked up from his PC. "You talked to Wayte?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I'll be with you in a minute."

Faraday settled himself at the conference table. Willard finally joined him. For a big man, Faraday thought, he looked strangely diminished, even forlorn.

"So how did it go?"

"Nothing actionable. He'll fight the inquiry all the way."

"Nothing?" Willard was frowning. "I thought you told me he'd blown Tumbril?"

"He has. That's exactly what he's done."

"To Mackenzie?"

"I assume so."

"Assume so? What kind of dog wank is that?"

Willard rarely stooped to canteen language. He was plainly under immense pressure.

Faraday leaned forward, taking the chance to explain exactly what had happened over the last twenty-four hours. How he'd isolated that single phrase about Mackenzie on the tape from the Solent Palace. How the phrase had to have come from a Tumbril meeting. How he'd shrunk the suspect list to just four names. And what had emerged from last night's visit to Joyce's place.

"So she's been shagging Harry Wayte?"

"Yes."

"Fucking hell. And giving him all our secrets?"

"They talk. Shagging isn't a crime. Neither is conversation."

"It bloody well is when it goes straight to Mackenzie."

"That's not Joyce's fault."

"Of course it is, Joe. She signed an undertaking about Tumbril. By talking to Harry, she broke it. She's either stupid or guilty. You're telling me she trusts this man?"

"She's in love with him. It's often the same thing… As we all know."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Nothing, sir. But you know it and I know it. Get really serious about someone and the rest of it goes out of the window."

"The rest of it being Tumbril}'1

"Yes."

"What about Wayte? What's his line?"

"He wants early retirement. Insists, in fact."

"He's copping out?"

"Yes. It's the white flag. He's jacking it in."

Willard brooded about this news for a moment. Then he looked up at Faraday again.

"So what does he have to say about Mackenzie?"

"Nothing. He denies everything. He's insisting he's never said a word to Mackenzie and it's up to PSD to prove otherwise. He'll take them to the wire."

"And there's absolutely no hard evidence that ties him to Mackenzie?"

"None. Joyce admits she discussed Tumbril with him."

"About what? Specifically?"

"About a booking at the Sally Port. Room six. Graham Wallace."

"Last week, you mean?"

"Yes."

"How the fuck did she know about that?"

"I…" Faraday felt about twelve '… left a room service receipt in the car from the afternoon I was with Wallace. Joyce happened to see it. Thought I was over the side. Passed it on as gossip. Like you do."

"Great. Wonderful. The receipt had Wallace's name on it?"

"No, sir, just the room number."

"So how did Joyce tie the receipt to Wallace?"

"Wayte fronted up at the hotel. Sat the manager down and did the business."

"As a copper?"

"As a DI. Warrant card, the lot."

"You know that?"

"I talked to the manager last night."

"Got a statement off him?"

"No… but it's there for the taking."

"Thank Christ for that. Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"The tape from this morning?"

"Useless. Packed up halfway through. Technical fault."

Willard nodded. Back at his desk, he put a call through to the Chief Supt. heading the Professional Standards Department. Briefly, he passed on the news about the manager at the Sally Port. PSD should get someone down there sharpish. Harry Wayte, in his view, was on a nicking. And so was Joyce. The conversation over, he turned to Faraday again.

"That Harry Wayte," he said softly, 'is a dead man."

The restaurant Eadie had chosen for lunch was in the heart of Southsea.

Sur-la-Mer offered decent French cuisine at sensible prices with a respectable wine list to go with it. Eadie chose a '95 Rioja, a tacit signal to Faraday that all was well with their world. To Faraday, depressed by the last couple of hours, it was the sweetest possible news. Since she'd got back from Kingston Crescent, she'd received word from the people at the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership. They'd watched their copy of the VHS, and although they'd never expected anything quite as hard-hitting, a first viewing indicated that it might make a bit of an impact.

"Impact?" Faraday laughed, light-headed now. "Christ."

"I talked to one of the girls there. Off the record, she told me they might be up for paying for proper distribution."

"I thought that was all taken care of?"

"No." Eadie snapped a bread stick in two. "I've only budgeted for Hampshire. This would take it nationwide."

"Brilliant." Faraday raised a glass. "Congratulations. You've bloody earned it."