Cut to Black

Chapter ten

THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 12.00

Faraday found himself alone at Tumbril HQ on Whale Island. The Mackenzie briefing over, Imber and the young accountant had driven into the city for a meeting with a senior clearing-bank executive with access to Mackenzie's five accounts, while Joyce was over at the HMS Excellent mess, looking for a pint of milk.

Faraday stood at the window, watching a squad of young recruits jogging past. There was a PTI behind them, rounding up the strays, and the sight of the instructor falling into step behind the worst of the laggards brought memories of his own induction course flooding back.

Twenty-five years ago, probationer PCs in Faraday's entry found themselves under the tender care of a burly prop forward who swore that rugby was the shortest cut to heaven. Faraday himself had never been keen on team games but he cycled a lot because it was cheap and knew he was as fit as anyone else in the group. Keeping up with the rest of the pack had therefore been no problem but now, watching the tail-ender redden under the lash of the PTI, he marvelled at how simple the world had then appeared.

At twenty-three, he couldn't wait to get out on the beat. The law, to his faint surprise, was a living thing, continually in the process of change, but once you understood the basic principles and memorised a hundred or so pages of detailed legislation, then applying the thrust of all those weighty clauses seemed on the face of it pretty straightforward. You were there to keep the peace, to safeguard life and property, to protect people from their own worst instincts. Little of this optimism survived his first year in uniform policing was rarely as black and white as he'd imagined but not once had he anticipated ending up heading an operation as complex and inward-looking as Tumbril. What kind of justice required an investigation to be as covert, as walled-off, as this? Of whom were the handful of senior officers in the know really frightened?

At the end of his profile of Bazza Mackenzie, the young accountant had passed Faraday a slender spiral-bound file that summarised his progress to date. With the aid of seized documentation deposit slips, bank accounts, financial transfer instructions he'd laid out a series of audit trails, mapping the sheer reach of Mackenzie's commercial empire.

Referenced and cross-referenced, each of these audit trails dealt with a particular asset a car, a property, a bank account, a business — proving to any jury that real ownership, behind a thousand financial transactions and a small army of relatives, friends, and professional advisers, still lay with Mackenzie. In this way item by item, page by page, Prebble was slowly building a bonfire of Mackenzie's carefully hidden assets, millions of pounds' worth of ill-gotten gains. All Faraday would have to do was provide the spark proof positive that Mackenzie had broken the law and the whole lot would go up in flames.

That way, as Imber kept reminding everyone, we'll really hurt the guy.

And not just him, either, but the handful of high-profile professional advisers who'd flagged his path to the big time.

Faraday stepped away from the window, only too aware of the pressures which had driven Nick Hayder to the brink. Pulling in a u/c officer and seeding a head-to-head with Mackenzie was undeniably clever. But the very boldness of a stroke like this smacked to Faraday of desperation. By being so successful, Mackenzie had made himself virtually impregnable. He had powerful friends. He'd established himself in legitimate business. He'd become, in one of Prebble's laconic asides, the living proof that capitalism works. Some guys built their fortunes on a string of patents. Others dreamed up a brilliant marketing idea. With Bazza Mackenzie it just happened to be cocaine. But who could prove it?

Faraday's mobile began to chirp. He didn't recognise the number. For a moment or two he was tempted to ignore it. Then he had second thoughts.

"Paul Winter. Am I interrupting anything?"

"No. How can I help you?"

"I don't want to talk about it on the phone. Lunch any good? Pie and a pint?"

"Now? Today?" Faraday could see the mountain of files awaiting his attention on the desk across the office.

"Yeah. Sorry about the short notice but you'll be glad you came."

"Why?"

"It's about your boy."

"J-J?"

"Yeah."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing… yet. Still and West? Quarter to one?"

Faraday glanced at his watch. Half two he was due for yet another meeting with Willard and Imber. Until then, his time was his own.

He bent to the phone again. Three years as DIon division had taught him a great deal about Paul Winter. Rule number one was never trust the man. Rule number two was never ignore him. The Still and West was a pub in Old Portsmouth, overlooking the harbour narrows. The last time Faraday had paid a visit, the place had been full of journalists.

"Let's make it the Pembroke. I'll be there for twelve forty-five."

Winter rang off and Faraday found himself still gazing at the number.

The reference to J-J had chilled him to the bone. Given this morning's conversation with Eadie Sykes, there were a thousand and one reasons why the boy might have got himself into trouble, but how, exactly, had he crossed paths with the likes of Paul Winter?

"Sheriff…?"

Faraday spun round. Joyce was back. There was a new carton of semi-skimmed on the shelf beside the electric kettle and she was already reaching for her coat.

"The Pembroke takes you through town." She grinned at him. "You mind giving this lady a lift?"

Faraday's Mondeo was in the car park. There was a queue of vehicles waiting for clearance at the security barrier and the saloon rolled to a halt behind a minibus full of mate lots Faraday glanced sideways at Joyce. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Tumbril.

"How's that husband of yours?"

"History. I binned the marriage a couple of months back."

"Really?" The last time Faraday checked, Joyce had been married to a uniformed Inspector in the Southampton BCU, a dour Aberdonian with a roving eye and a passion for fitness routines. "What happened?"

"One probationer too many, I guess. Plus I wasn't up to serial child molesting, not at the time. Strange thing about cancer, sheriff, it does nothing for your sense of humour. Was I harsh, do you think?

Wishing him God speed?"

Her husband, she told him, had been worse than useless when tests had confirmed the oncologist's suspicions. The Royal South Hants had found her a bed within days but he'd barely managed a couple of visits over the fortnight she'd been in hospital. At the time, she'd believed his excuses about the pressure of work. Only later, thanks to a neighbour, did she discover that he'd moved the latest conquest into the marital home. Strictly as an act of compassion.

"Nineteen-year-old called Bethany. Needed somewhere quiet to study for her probationer's exams. Poor waif. But hey' she flipped down the sun visor and studied her lip gloss in the mirror on the back 'who needs husbands?"

They were through the barrier now, and crossing the bridge beside the ferry port. Faraday wanted to know where she was living.

"Home. Just like always."

"And Neil?"

"You tell me, honey. He phones me up, writes me letters, sends huge bunches of flowers, tries to explain what a big mistake he'd made. Me?

I tell him to go to hell. Most times we get one pass at life. This lady's been given two. You think I'm gonna waste me on that bastard again? The nerve of the guy."

She shook her head, gazing out at the traffic. Beside the roundabout at the end of the motorway into the city, a handful of students were milling around beneath a big hand-lettered placard in what looked like

an impromptu demonstration. The placard read STOP THE WAR! 6 P.M. GUILDHALL SQUARE.

"There's another shit head." Joyce was fumbling for her lipstick.

"Who?"

"Boy George. Can you believe that man? And can you credit my dickhead countrymen for voting the guy in? Not that he even fucking won in the first place."

Faraday smiled to himself, reaching for the car radio. This was a new Joyce, feistier than ever, her raw enjoyment of life edged by something close to anger. Maybe she was right. Maybe a glimpse of oblivion, your own life suddenly on the line, robbed voter apathy of its charms.

A pundit on Radio Four was speculating on the lengths Saddam might go to in Iraq. Oil wells were already blazing around Basra. Might he also torch the northern oilfields?

"You feel comfortable with all this?" Faraday gestured out at the students.

"The war or the protest?"

"The war."

"Hell, no. But you know something? The problem isn't what folk like Bush get us into. It isn't even all those little kids you're going to see in the wreckage once we've bombed the be jesus out of the place.

No, the real problem is the fact that us Americans actually believe all this shit. We're doing it for liberty and freedom. We're killing Iraqis to make them better human beings. Believe me, sheriff, when the world comes to an end, it'll be the Americans who pull the trigger. And you know something else? It'll be in all our best interests. You heard it first from me, Joe. Takes a Yank to know a Yank." She applied a final dab of powder from a small compact, then snapped it shut. "How about you?"

"I loathe it."

"I meant your love life."

"What?" Faraday brought the car to a halt again. The directness of this woman never ceased to amaze him. Even Eadie Sykes was a novice compared to Joyce.

"Just wondering, honey. Last time I had the pleasure of your company, you were shacked up with a Spanish lady. Am I right?"

"Yes. Sort of."

"Still together?"

"No."

"Someone else?"

"Yes."

"Serious?"

"Straightforward. We laugh a lot."

"You love her?"

"That's a big question."

"You living together?"

"No."

"She got a place of her own? Somewhere private?"

"Yes."

"Is she married? Tied up with someone else?"

"Absolutely not." He looked across at her. "What is this?"

"Nothing, honey. Just curious, that's all. You know something else about the Big C? It gives you the right to ask the hard questions."

She paused a moment, staring out at the lunchtime shoppers dodging through the stalled traffic. "Mind if I pop another one?"

"Not at all."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"OK." She reached forward and tapped the receipt Faraday had left on the dashboard. "How come you're having room service at the Sally Port Hotel if this relationship's so great?"

Eadie Sykes found Martin Eckersley bent over a copy of the Independent when she finally made it to the Cafe Parisien. She was ten minutes late and he was already on page 4.

She pulled up a seat and gave the proffered menu the briefest of glances.

"Three-egg omelette and fries." She nodded at the empty cup beside the paper. "Cappuccino to start."

"I thought you were on a diet?"

"Never. We're talking four miles a day at the moment, and that's before I even break a sweat. Girl's got to refuel otherwise she falls over." She grinned at him. "How's you?"

"Busy."

He began to tell her about the Leigh Park death, a woman in her mid forties with a history of mental disturbance and a fondness for cheap vodka. She'd been found dead in bed with an empty bottle of painkillers on the pillow and no sign of a note. Eadie let him air his worries about the possibility of interference by some other party, then leant forward, touching him lightly on the hand.

"Daniel Kelly…?" she said.

Eckersley paused in mid sentence. He was a small, neat, attentive man with bright eyes behind rimless glasses and a carefully tended moustache. A lawyer by training, he'd left a profitable Birmingham practice after a couple of years as Deputy for the city's Coroner. The world of sudden death, he'd once confessed to Eadie, had put him back in touch with real life. Not as just an inquisitor, trying to establish the truth about a particular set of circumstances, but as a human being, doing his best to ease the grief of those left behind.

"I read the file this morning," he said. "Such as it is. One of my blokes talked to a DC first thing. How much do we know about the lad?"

The 'we? put a smile on Eadie's face. She'd known from their first meeting that she represented something new and slightly exotic in this man's life.

"He was bright, very bright. Older than your average student and pretty much alone."

She told him about Kelly's background, the wreckage of his parents' marriage, the way he'd rafted around the world on a fat monthly allowance, a bewildered loner looking for some sense of direction.

"Or purpose."

"Quite."

"And the drugs?"

"Supplied that purpose."

"You're serious?"

"I am. You should listen to him, Martin. A couple of tapes are on their way to you. A nice detective seized them this morning. Kept asking me about supply of Class A drugs. Made me feel like a criminal."

"You were there," Eckersley pointed out. "In fact you were probably the last person to see him alive. That makes you a witness."

"That's what he said but that doesn't mean I killed him, does it? The key word here is "witness". I played the recording angel. Got it all down on tape, the whole story."

"Good stuff? Effective?"

"Unbelievable. You can judge for yourself but, believe me, the guy's amazing. What he says is pretty controversial and it might not be our take on hard drugs but that doesn't make it any less valid. More to the point, he sounds authentic. He's been there. He is there. Any kid watching will know that, sense that, and at the end of the day some of them just might listen. Here." Eadie rummaged in her day sack and produced a hastily folded photocopy. "I know you've got the world's best memory but I thought this might help."

Eckersley studied the photocopy. Three months ago, he'd been part of the review process, helping to check out Eadie's submission to the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership for match-funding on her video project.

Their first encounter had taken place in the Coroner's Office at Highland Road police station, a meeting of minds fuelled by appalling coffee. Eadie had deliberately left room for last-minute adjustments in the twenty-four-page submission document believing that heavyweight support could only strengthen her case and within a week, after further exchanges on the phone, she and Eckersley had agreed the single paragraph that seemed to sum up the thrust of Eadie's video.

Eadie waited until Eckersley had finished. Then she retrieved the photocopy, looking him in the eye, and began to read the paragraph aloud.

' "The documentary maker has a duty to level the ground between the audience at risk and the real nature of the offending behaviour. The emphasis should be on reality… on real people, real causes, real consequences. There should be no need for homilies, for finger-wagging, for lists of do's and don'ts. The case for not using drugs should make itself." '

She glanced up. "The important word is "consequences", Martin. Like I said, the interview is knockout, but if you want the truth there's only so much that words can do. What we need now are pictures, the rest of the story, what actually happens in a case like this."

"You mean the post-mortem."

"Sure. And the funeral. And the father. And maybe you. All of that."

"You don't think that's intrusive?"

"Intrusive? Dear God, of course it's intrusive. But that's precisely the issue because drugs themselves are intrusive. In fact they're so bloody intrusive they kill you. And even if that doesn't happen, even if you limp on, more or less intact, they still take your life away. If that wasn't the truth, we wouldn't be talking like this. Nor would I be spending half my life running round after bloody junkies." She beckoned him closer, aware of listening ears at nearby tables. "My point is simple, Martin. It's consequences again. Just ask yourself a question. How many kids are going to be shooting up if they're thinking about bodies on slabs? About Daniel Kelly getting himself sliced up? Emptied? Weighed? Whatever else happens in the mortuary?

Is all that such a great advert for hard drugs?"

"Have you ever seen a post-mortem?"

"Never."

"They're horrible."

"Good." Eadie held his gaze for a moment. "Because that's the whole point."

The waitress arrived. After some thought, Eckersley settled for a ham salad. Then he folded his newspaper and slipped it into the briefcase beside his chair.

"There's something else we ought to take on board," he said finally.

"And that's the effect on your co-sponsors."

"They've all signed up," Eadie said at once. "I've been totally frank from the start. I've told them exactly what to expect and there's absolutely nothing in this video that should take them by surprise. In fact, if anything I thought we'd have the opposite problem."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning I couldn't deliver what I promised. Meaning I'd end up with a mishmash of talking heads and millions of kids in thousands of classrooms all half asleep. Thanks to Dan, that isn't going to happen."

"You're assuming I'm going to let you into the PM?"

"I'm assuming we share the same ambitions for the end result."

"That's not necessarily the same thing."

"Martin, I think deep down you know it is. You've got a problem here.

I understand that. It's your jurisdiction, your call. Jesus, as far as I understand it, Daniel Kelly actually belongs to you until you deliver a verdict at the inquest. But let's just take the bigger picture. I can get permission from Kelly's father faxed to you this afternoon. That might relieve some of the pressure. Then there's the shoot itself. I have one-hundred-per-cent confidence in what I'm doing, in the need for all this stuff. I know how it will play on the screen. I know the difference it will make. It's a tricky thing to do, I know it is, but all I'm asking is an act of faith. Believe in me, Martin. And believe in what we're trying to do."

"I'm still concerned about your co-sponsors."

"Don't be."

"The Police Authority? You really think they'll be up for this?"

"They'll love it. They spend half their lives trying to give people a shake."

"The city council?"

"They might well be queasy. But does that make them right?"

"Maybe not, but you'll have to be ready for all that. And how about your private sponsors? There'll be enormous publicity, headlines in the press, letters… Have they really signed up for this kind of controversy?"

"Most of them are in for a couple of hundred quid each. If they want to take their names off the project, they'll be more than welcome."

"And your Mr. Hughes? 7000, wasn't it?"

Eadie nodded, surprised at his grasp of the figures. Doug Hughes was Eadie's first husband, a successful independent accountant with a small clientele of local businessmen. He and Eadie had been divorced now for nearly six years but had stayed good friends. Both her flat and Ambrym's office premises were rented from her ex-husband's company, and he'd supported the video project from the start.

"The 7000 isn't his. He's simply acting as a middle man. The real donor wants to stay out of it."

"Anonymous?"

"Absolutely. Even I haven't got a clue where the seven grand comes from." She paused, watching the waitress approach an adjoining table with a big bowl of pasta. "Either way, he's not going to be making any kind of fuss. Does that make things any easier?"

Eckersley didn't answer. Instead, he waited for the waitress to finish, then beckoned her over.

"Red or white wine?" He glanced across at Eadie with a sudden smile.

"My treat."

Faraday parked his Mondeo outside the cathedral and walked the last fifty metres to the Pembroke. The pub stood on a corner on the main road out to Southsea and had won itself a reputation for reliable beer, home-cooked lunches, and an interesting clientele. Some evenings, you might find yourself drinking alongside half a dozen basses from the cathedral choir. Other nights, you'd be sharing the bar with an assortment of broken-nosed veterans from the Royal Naval field-gun crew.

DC Paul Winter was perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, engrossed in the midday edition of the News. The pub was busy, and to Faraday's surprise Winter didn't look out of place amongst the gathering of lunchtime drinkers, men of a certain age blunting the edges of the day with a pint or two before settling down to an afternoon of horse racing in front of the telly. Give Winter a couple of years, thought Faraday, and he might be doing this full time.

"Boss?" Winter had caught his eye and was semaphoring a drink.

"No, thanks." Faraday barely touched the outstretched hand. "I thought we might take a walk."

Winter looked at him a moment, then drew his attention to the newspaper. The front page was dominated by a grainy photo showing the concourse at the town station. A couple of medics and a fireman were crouched over a body slumped beside one of the ticket barriers, while a handful of passengers waited patiently to get through. WELCOME TO POMPEY ran the headline.

"One of the punters had a digital camera in his briefcase." Winter was buttoning his coat. "Apparently Secretan's gone ballistic' "Why?"

"You don't know about this morning? One of our Scouse friends?"

"Tell me."

Winter eased himself off the bar stool, drained the remains of his pint, and shepherded Faraday towards the door. By the time they'd reached the se afront Faraday was up to speed.

"You're telling me the Cavalier belonged to the kid on the station?"

"Tenner says yes."

"And the plate checks out with the Nick Hayder vehicle?"

"Scenes of Crime are all over it. They think there may be DNA residues around the offside headlamp. Won't know for certain until they've trucked it away for tests but I'll give you short odds on another yes.

That puts the Scouser in the shit. Big time."

"We're talking Nick's DNA?"

"Yes."

"So where's the Scouse kid now?"

"Still in hospital, as far as I know. Cathy Lamb's sorting some arrangement over protection."

"From who?"

Winter stared at him. By now they were out on the fortifications, walking briskly towards the fun fair at Clarence Pier.

"Bazza Mackenzie mean anything to you, boss? Local guy? Made a bob or two out of the white stuff? Not fussed who knows it? Only a little bird tells me Bazza's not best pleased with our Scouse friends. Wants them out of town. Hence the lift to the station."

"You can prove that?"

"Give me a couple of days," Winter nodded, 'and the answer's yes. Not Bazza himself, of course, but a mate of his, Chris Talbot. We've got him on video, him and another fella, doing the business at the station.

That's the thing about Bazza nowadays, isn't it? Bit fussy about appearances. Can't stand the sight of blood. Shame, really. He was a good scrapper once."

Both men had come to a halt on the wooden bridge that straddled the remains of the Spur Redoubt, the outermost edge of the ancient fortifications. From here on, the Pompey garrison would have been in no-man's land, at the mercy of events, an irony not lost on Faraday.

"You mentioned J-J on the phone," Faraday said carefully. "What's happened?"

Winter thought about the question, his hands on the wooden rail of the bridge. To Faraday, he'd always had a certain physical presence, a bluff matey self-confidence that had served him well over the years.

Winter was the DC you put into the cells at the Bridewell on a Monday morning, knowing he'd emerge with yet more recruits to his ever-swelling army of informants. And Winter, on a job that took his fancy, was a detective who had the wit and the experience to dream up an angle that would never have occurred to anyone else. In thief-taking terms, as Faraday had frequently pointed out to his exasperated bosses, the man was a priceless asset in any CID office.

Yet at the same time Winter was dangerous. He pledged his loyalty to no one and didn't care who knew it. Show him a weakness, any weakness, and he'd turn you inside out. Once, a couple of years back, he'd arrived uninvited at the Bargemaster's House, late at night, bewildered and distraught at what was happening to his dying wife. Joannie had inoperable cancer. The doctors were measuring her life in weeks. And Winter, in his rage and despair, had been utterly lost. For a couple of hours, over a bottle of Bell's, the two men had stepped out of their respective jobs and simply compared notes. Faraday knew about widowhood and had the scars to prove it. Winter, who'd never ceased to play the field when opportunities presented themselves, just couldn't contemplate a life without his precious Joannie. He'd let her down.

He'd taken her for granted. And now, all too suddenly, it was far, far too late to make amends.

That night, as Winter wandered away into the dark, Faraday had known they'd got as close to each other as two needful human beings ever can.

Since then, a dozen small betrayals had given the lie to those moments of kinship. Yet here he was, back on intimate territory, and Faraday wanted to know why.

Winter was describing the Crime Squad bust on Pennington Road.

Everything had gone to rat shit, he said, and they'd been playing catchup ever since.

"What's that got to do with my son?"

Winter eyed him for a moment, the look again, careful, appraising. He'd spent half his life climbing in and out of other people's heads — weighing up what they knew and what they didn't and Faraday knew he was doing it now.

"In this business, it pays not to be surprised," he said at last. "No surprises. Make a note. Stick it on my tombstone."

"And?"

"You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"About your boy."

"No." Faraday shook his head. "I don't."

Winter nodded, some deep intuitive suspicion confirmed, and then gazed out to sea again. Miles away, against the low hump of the Isle of Wight, a small, brown sail.

"OK, boss," he said. "This is off the record. We had obs on the Pennington Road premises yesterday afternoon, high profile. We're not bothering with court any more. The plan is to run these animals out of town."

"We?"

"Me and a young lad, Jimmy Suttle." He glanced at Faraday. "Country boy. Not a problem."

"And?"

"Your lad turned up at No. 30. That's the address we did the previous night."

"You're telling me he was there to score?"

"It wasn't a social call."

"You arrested him?"

"No. I sent Suttle after him. It's all intelligence-led these days, isn't it? All that cobblers? Anyway, Suttle followed him halfway across the city. You'll know where he went."

"Hampshire Terrace?"

"Spot on. Ambrym Productions. The lovely Ms Sykes. Suttle hung around for a while, then I picked him up."

"And that was it? You didn't stop the boy? Search him?"

"No, boss. I thought' he shrugged, hunching a little deeper into his anorak 'it was better to give you a bell."

"Why?"

"Because I owe you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You're a funny bugger sometimes but I think you've got more bollocks than most of the twats I've known in your job. That make any sense?"

Faraday was conscious of a flooding warmth. With an effort, he kept the smile off his face.

"None," he said. "Are we done now?"

"Not quite."

"There's more?"

"I'm afraid so." He turned from the railing and looked Faraday in the eye. "How come I'm the one telling you this?"

"Telling me what?"

"About your boy. After we left him, he went to Old Portsmouth. Your lady friend's making some kind of video. J-J must have taken the gear with him. They taped a student shooting up, then fucked off. Which is a shame, really."

"Why?"

"The student died."

For a long moment, Faraday lost his concentration. After Hampshire Terrace, he'd followed this sequence of events step by step, no surprises, matching Winter's laconic account against the images he'd seen on Eadie's rushes. He knew J-J had been behind the camera. He'd explored the criminal implications of their presence at the flat. But not for a moment had he expected the punchline.

"Died?" he said numbly.

"Inhalation of vomit. I've seen the paperwork. The gear must have been extra-special."

"Who discovered the body?"

"An ex-girlfriend. Apparently she'd helped set up the interview in the first place."

"When did she find out?"

"Round eleven, eleven thirty. She'd gone round to kiss him goodnight.

Bit late as it turned out."

"Do you have a name for the girlfriend?"

"Sarah somebody. Bev's picked it up from Dawn. Dawn was duty last night."

Sarah. Faraday closed his eyes, rocking slowly on his heels, picturing Eadie retreating into her bedroom at the flat as he made his own exit for work. Sarah had been on the phone first thing. Eadie, the woman he slept with, trusted, loved even, had kept this appalling secret for half a day and said absolutely nothing. Not a phone call. Not an e-mail. Not a cautionary heads-up. Nothing.

Faraday swallowed hard, battling to get the next few hours into perspective. He knew the investigative machine by heart, every working part. A heroin overdose. Dodgy gear. A video camera tracking the prospective corpse to bed. And now evidence from two DCs on the exact provenance of the killer wrap. Open and shut case. Collusion in procuring Class A drugs. Plus a possible manslaughter charge. With his own son in the dock.

"Who's holding the file?"

"Bev Yates."

"Does he know about' Faraday gestured loosely at the space between them 'this?"

"No, boss."

"OK." Faraday nodded, stepping away. "Then tell him."