Cut to Black

Chapter eleven

THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 14.11

Faraday was still waiting for the phone to ring when Willard stepped into his office. He'd left several voice messages on all Eadie's numbers and a curt text on J-J's mobile. Neither had called back.

"We need to talk before Brian Imber gets here." Willard shut the door.

"You've got a moment?"

"Help yourself." Faraday nodded at the spare chair.

"I was up at HQ this morning. Had a session with Terry Alcott. He wants us to move Tumbril along. He's not saying so but the pressure must be coming from the top. That's the way I read it."

Faraday was eyeing the telephone. Terry Alcott was the Assistant Chief Constable responsible for CID and Special Operations, an impressive operator with a long Met pedigree. A respected voice on several national policing bodies, he was one of the few senior officers privy to the inner workings of Tumbril.

"He's still on side "Absolutely. But I think he's getting nervous about the funding. Wants a scalp or two, something to put on the Chief's desk. That girl in the media unit was on to me just now. She's been fielding calls from the national press about the incident on the station this morning, wanted a steer. I said talk of turf wars was totally inappropriate. This is Pompey. Not the West Midlands."

"And you believe that?"

"Of course not. And neither does Terry Alcott. Which is why you need to have a word with Graham Wallace."

Faraday turned the proposition over for a moment or two. Nick Hayder had been carefully developing the Spit Bank Fort sting for the best part of three months. So far, it had worked like a dream. Why let a flurry of press interest hazard the end game "The next move is Mackenzie's," he said. "That's the way Nick planned it."

"I realise that. What I'm asking you to do is look at the script again, have a chat with Wallace, see whether we can't put a bit more pressure on Mackenzie. One way or another we have to be seen to be on top of this, ahead of the game. That's Terry Alcott talking, not me."

Faraday pulled a pad towards him and scribbled a note. If the media were getting excited about a Scouser shackled to a ticket barrier, what would they make of a DI's son charged with manslaughter?

"You hear about the Cavalier?" Willard had treated himself to a rare smile. "The one that did Nick Hayder?"

"Yes."

"Nice one, eh? Do Cathy Lamb a power of good. All we need now is the other little bastard in the car and we can put them both away.

Attempted murder, possession with intent to supply, you're looking at a fair old stretch."

"We can evidence the supply charge?"

"Scenes of Crime found half a dozen wraps in the glove box Whoever said Scousers were bright?" Willard chuckled, then got to his feet.

"News from the hospital, by the way. Nick's back with us again.

Recovered consciousness last night."

"How is he?"

"Groggy. Can't remember anything about the incident and not a lot before that. They'll be doing more tests this afternoon."

"He's still in Critical Care?"

"For the time being. But the bloke I talked to thought they'd probably be transferring him to a regular ward as soon as they'd got a bed.

Might pop up there this evening, see if he remembers me." He glanced back at Faraday. "Fancy it?"

"Of course." Faraday was still thinking about J-J. Sooner or later he'd have to level with Willard, tell him exactly what had happened, but there seemed little point before he could raise either Eadie or his son.

"What's this, then?" Willard was pointing at one of the photos on the cork board over Faraday's desk. It showed a mottled brown bird, almost invisible against the backdrop of dead leaves and old bracken. Faraday got to his feet and joined him. He couldn't remember when Willard had last displayed the slightest interest in his private life.

"Nightjar," he said. "There was a family of them on the heath in the New Forest. With any luck, they'll be back in May."

Willard nodded, scanning the rest of the photos.

"Still at it, then? You and our feathered friends?"

"Afraid so. Keeps me out of mischief."

"Your boy still tag along? Only I remember he was pretty interested."

"No." Faraday shook his head. "J-J's fled the nest, pretty much."

"Off your hands, then?"

"I wouldn't say that."

Willard glanced at his watch. The Tumbril meeting with Brian Imber was due to start in a couple of minutes. Imber might be waiting even now.

The Det-Supt nodded at the pad on Faraday's desk, then reached for the door handle.

"Mum's the word, eh? About Wallace?"

The parking in the commercial heart of Southsea was a nightmare. DC Jimmy Suttle took his chances on a double yellow, pulling the unmarked squad Fiesta behind a long line of cars. Beside him, Paul Winter was peering at a property across the road: big Georgian sash windows and a glimpse of a handsome porticoed entrance behind an encircling eight-foot wall. The walls of adjoining properties, equally grand, had been defaced with graffiti. On the wall across the road, not a mark.

"Bazza HQ." Winter helped himself to another Werther's Original. "Told you he'd come up in the world."

The last time he'd paid a visit, a couple of years back, the place had been a gentlemen's club, a gloomy, shadowed echo of the dying days of empire. Run-down and barely used, Bazza had bought it for cash from the trustees, meaning to restore the interior to its former glory. Back in the nineteenth century, one of Southsea's premier families had lived here, a brewer who'd made his fortune slaking Pompey thirsts. A man with political ambitions, he'd ended up as the city's mayor, bringing a gruff, broad-chested impatience to deliberations in the council chamber. Mackenzie had evidently read a pamphlet or two about the man, sensing how shrewdly he'd turned business success to other ends, and rather fancied running his own commercial empire from within the same four walls. Craneswater was fine if you wanted a decent place to live, somewhere nice for the missus and kids, but the middle of Southsea was where you'd leave your real mark.

Suttle reached for his door handle. Chris Talbot also operated from the pile across the road. There were questions he needed to answer about the Scouse lad in the back of the Transit, about the abandoned Cavalier in Portsea.

"Wait." Suttle felt Winter's hand on his arm.

Electronically controlled gates sealed the house off from the road. As they swung back, Suttle recognised the bulky figure in a leather jacket, pausing beside a low-slung Mercedes convertible. Chris Talbot.

"What's the problem?" Suttle had the door open now. "Either we front up now or we lose him."

"Wait," Winter repeated.

Another figure appeared in the driveway beside the Mercedes. She was tall and blonde with wraparound shades and the kind of tan you couldn't buy from a salon. It was hard to be sure at fifty metres, but she didn't seem to be smiling.

"The lovely Marie," Winter murmured. "Bazza's missus."

Talbot opened the boot. Marie handed him a bag, then checked her watch. Time was plainly moving on.

"OK." Winter gave Suttle the nod. "Let's go."

They walked across the road. Talbot saw them coming. Winter stood in the drive, blocking the exit to the road.

"Christopher," he said amiably. "Thought we might have a chat."

Talbot glanced at Marie, then circled the car. His shaved head was mapped with scars and a tiny silver cross hung from one ear lobe. His eyes, screwed up against the bright sunlight, were pouched with exhaustion and his face had a slightly yellowish tint. Once, thought Suttle, this bloke might have been good-looking.

"Well?" Winter wanted an answer.

"No chance." Talbot nodded down at the car. "Just off. Marie fancies a run out to Chichester."

"Riding shotgun, are we? Keeping the Indians off?" Winter glanced up at the house, aware of a watching face at an upstairs window. "We can either do it here or at our place. Your choice. The quicker we get it sorted, the sooner you get to Laura Ashley. So what's it to be?"

There was a sudden movement behind the car. Marie had produced a set of keys. Getting into the driver's seat revealed the extent of her tan.

"Where are you going?" Talbot bent down to her window.

"Chichester, where do you bloody think? You want to talk to these guys, that's fine by me."

"Listen, Baz said '

"Fuck Baz."

She gunned the engine, her face expressionless behind the windscreen and the designer shades. To Suttle's surprise, despite the language there wasn't a trace of Pompey in her accent.

Talbot bent to the driver's window again, then had second thoughts.

Looking up at the house, he put his hand to his mouth. The piercing whistle opened a window. A younger face leaned out.

"Chichester, son," Talbot yelled. "Marie needs company."

"See?" Winter was beaming at Suttle. "Apaches everywhere."

Marie and her new escort gone, Winter and Suttle followed Talbot into the house. Winter, with a memory of cobwebbed windows and threadbare moquette, paused inside the gleaming front door, already impressed. A new-looking floor lapped at the edges of the enormous hall. A big chandelier hung from an elaborate ceiling rose. Even the air itself smelled of money.

"Bazza given up on pool?" Winter gestured at the golf bag propped beside the front door.

Talbot ignored him. An elegant staircase wound up towards the first floor. Winter paused beside the second of the framed pictures. Once, this staircase would have been lined with family portraits, specially commissioned in oils, the brewer's entire dynasty gazing down on visitors below. Now, each of these huge blow-up photos captured a moment at Fratton Park: Alan Knight palming a shot over the bar, Paul Merson at full throttle down the wing, Todorov lashing the ball into the net, the crowd erupting beyond him. There was even a shot of Alan Ball, the day Pompey last made it into the top division, his arm round his beaming chairman.

"This isn't a house," Suttle muttered. "It's a fucking shrine."

Talbot led them to an office at the end of the top landing. The desk looked new and there was a gentle hum from the PC. Two filing cabinets flanked the big sash window. A coffee machine was bubbling on the table beside the desk and the year planner on the wall above was already thick with appointments stretching into early summer. In early June, five days were blocked off for Wimbledon.

"This yours, then?" Winter gestured round.

"Bazza's. He's away today."

"What's this?" It was Suttle. He'd spotted a big French tricolour carefully draped on the back of the door. It was the one splash of colour amongst the muted greens and browns.

Talbot refused to answer. Winter was looking amused.

"Go on. The boy's a Saints fan. Tell him."

Talbot shot Winter a look then sank into the chair behind the desk and helped himself to a coffee.

"Bollocks to that. You want to talk business, go ahead. If I want a social chat I can think of better company."

Winter was eyeing the percolator.

"Just the one sugar will be fine."

"Help yourself."

"I will. James?"

Suttle still wanted to know about the flag. At length, the coffees poured, Winter filled in the details. Back in the eighties, a boatload of fans had taken the early ferry to Le Havre to supply a bit of Pompey support in a cross-Channel pre-season friendly. Pre-warned about the 6.57, the French police had refused to let the blue army off the boat.

Mid morning, already pissed, dozens of them jumped overboard and swam across the harbour to dry land. After a while, the gendarmes gave up and let the rest off. Big mistake.

"Why?"

"Rape and pillage. The game didn't start until the afternoon and Le Havre's full of bars. Worse still, it's full of Frenchmen. Not their fault, no offence, but the Pompey weren't having it. Trashed the place. Just trashed it. Then they all jumped in a load of cabs and went off to the game. Place called Honfleur down the coast. Used to have a nice little ground till our lot took it apart. Got the game abandoned, too. The Goths had nothing on the 6.57. Eh, Chris?"

"And this thing?" Suttle nodded at the flag.

"That was afterwards, the way I heard it. Bazza came across a bar they'd missed first time round. The name of the place was the real wind-up."

What was it called?"

"Cafe de Southampton. The flag was out front, only bit to survive."

Winter chuckled to himself, then poured more coffee. At length, Talbot yawned.

"You going to get on with this or what? Only some of us have a living to make."

"Of course."

Winter put his coffee to one side and produced his pocketbook. Talbot and his mate had been clocked at the station at half past two in the morning. What happened before then?

Talbot pushed the chair back from the desk and stretched his legs. Then he clasped his hands behind his neck and gazed up at the ceiling.

"You want it all?"

"Please."

"OK. We were down in Gunwharf. Few bevvies. Quiet for a Wednesday."

"Time?"

"Late. Forty Below chucks out at two. Must have been around then, give or take. Then we wandered back to the motor, you know, the way you do."

"We?"

"Me and Steve Pratchett."

"He works for Bazza?"

"He's a subbie plasterer."

"Where do we find him?"

"Haven't a clue."

"Doesn't he have an address?"

"Bound to."

"Mobile?"

"Always binning them. It's a credit scam. He's always after a new model. He can't stand purple. Fuck knows."

"So what happened?"

"The van was parked round the back of the Keppel's Head. We're driving back through Portsea, middle of the fucking night, and we see this mush hanging out of a Cavalier. At first I think he's pissed. Then we get close, right alongside like, and shit you should have seen the state of him."

"Pre-damaged?"

"What?"

"Forget it. You stopped?"

"Of course we did. The bloke was spark out, blood all over his face, his T-shirt, everywhere, right beating. Then he comes round, moaning and groaning, and he must have thought it was us that did the damage because he starts thrashing around like you wouldn't believe."

"You're kidding…" Winter shook his head. "You do the damage?"

"Exactly. Anyway, me and Steve do our best to clean him up, then we ask where he'd like us to take him."

"Home would have been a good answer."

"Yeah, but he doesn't say that, does he? He wants to go to the railway station. He's had enough of Pompey. He wants to get the fuck out."

"The station's shut."

"That's what we told him. Made no difference. There he is, bleeding all over us, and all he can talk about is the fucking timetable."

Talbot rubbed his face, then yawned again. "In the end, we did what he wanted, took him to the station. Closest we could get was the ticket barrier. Never even said thank you."

"And the handcuffs?"

"What handcuffs?"

"You're telling me you didn't handcuff him to the barrier?"

"No fucking way. Why would I do a thing like that?"

Winter knew there was no point pursuing the charge. While he had absolutely no doubt that handcuffs were part of the tableau, the camera angle had masked the detail.

"What about the wraps?"

"Wraps?"

"We found half a dozen wraps in the Cavalier. Smack." Winter took a sip of coffee. "Didn't plant them yourself, did you? Only that would have been a kindness."

"Who to?"

"Us. We want these guys out of the city as much as you do."

"Really?" Talbot's interest was at last engaged. "Shame you haven't nicked them, then. You try fucking hard enough with the rest of us."

"Is that right?" Winter sounded positively hurt. "You're sitting here on half a million quid's worth and you're telling me we've spoiled your party?"

"Not yet. But you'd like to."

"How does that work, then? Are we talking busts here? Street level?

Half a dozen scrotes with a gram or two between them? That kind of aggro Bazza wouldn't even notice."

"You know what I'm talking about."

"I do?" Winter looked mystified. "Help me out at all, Jimmy?"

Suttle shook his head. He was making notes in his pocketbook. Later, when Winter had finished, he'd take a formal statement.

Winter was brooding over this latest bend in the conversational road.

He'd heard rumours about some covert operation being mounted against a major player in the city but he'd always put all this down to propaganda from the guys at headquarters who had worries about force morale. If no one had ever managed to lay a finger on Bazza Mackenzie, then it would be nice to pretend that someone was at least trying. But maybe, for once, the rumours were true.

"Tell me more' he said at length 'then we might leave you alone."

"You have to be joking. That's me done."

"Worried about Bazza? Speaking out of turn?"

"Fuck off."

"My pleasure." Winter held his gaze for a moment, then produced a card from his wallet. "When's the great man back?"

"Baz? Late this afternoon."

"Good." Winter slipped the card onto the desk. "My mobile's on there.

Tell him to bell me if he fancies it. Tonight would be good. The telly's awful."

It took less than ten minutes for Faraday to turn the Tumbril meeting into a head-to-head with Willard. Brian Imber had reported back from his visit to Mackenzie's bank. Bazza, he announced with a frown, had ordered the sale of a penthouse flat in Gunwharf. The property, on a prime harbour side site, was on the market at 695,000. "There has to be a reason," Imber puzzled. "Has to be." Faraday wanted to help out but knew he couldn't. In all probability, Mackenzie was raising cash against the purchase of Spit Bank Fort, proof positive that he'd taken Nick Hayder's carefully laid bait, but a single glance at Willard produced a tiny shake of the head. Any mention of Graham Wallace or the fort was still off-limits in front of Brian Imber. Strictly need to know. At least for now.

Willard steered the meeting onto safer ground. He wanted to know the status of Prebble's input, how far the accountant had got, how soon Willard could expect a totally reliable statement of the assets under Mackenzie's control. Faraday knew this information was important. The moment they managed to tie Mackenzie to a specific criminal offence proven in a court of law was the moment the confiscation process kicked in. From that point on, it would be down to Mackenzie to justify his legal ownership of every one of those assets, a challenge — in Prebble's view that would be beyond him. In this sense, as Imber kept reminding him, Tumbril had turned the investigative process on its head. First Prebble calculated how much they could nick back off the man. Then they looked for a specific charge that would stand up in court.

The latter, as far as Faraday could fathom, was the real problem.

Trapping a criminal as well protected as Mackenzie was a near-impossibility, and only a detective as driven and original as Nick Hayder would even be minded to try. In the shape of Spit Bank Fort he'd come up with a big fat plum that Mackenzie just might be tempted to scrump but in Faraday's view the odds against a successful sting were stilll high, not least because Tumbril despite Hayder's best efforts was itself far from secure.

An incoming phone call drew Willard to his desk. When he returned to the conference table, Faraday brought up the pre-Christmas intercept.

Mike Valentine's Mercedes had been stopped and searched en route back from London. The plan had been hatched and overseen by the Tumbril team, albeit with substantial input from other units. There was overwhelming evidence that the Mercedes was carrying substantial quantities of cocaine. Yet the full search found nothing.

"And your point is…?" Willard sounded testy. This was old ground.

"My point is someone leaked. Told Valentine. Told Mackenzie. Maybe not directly. Maybe it went through different hands. But either way it got there in the end. Hence the fact we drew a blank."

"We know that. And it's been addressed."

"How?"

It was a direct challenge. Willard, to his obvious irritation, couldn't duck it.

"Listen, Joe. We've always known from the start that Tumbril was basically an audit operation. It's paper-based, figures-based. That's how far the budget stretches and even then, believe me, we've barely got enough. The moment we want to spread our wings, mount an operation, scoop someone up, we have to widen the circle, bring in the specialists covert, surveillance, whatever. There's no way, short of the Good Fairy, we can do anything else."

"Of course." Faraday nodded. "But has anyone asked the hard questions about the intercept? Drawn up a list of names? People who knew?

People who might have' he shrugged 'leaked?"

"I did." It was Imber.

"And?"

"How long is a piece of string? We needed Special Ops for the covert.

That's a couple of blokes, minimum. Surveillance? Maybe half a dozen more. Say ten in all. It's maths, Joe. Each of these guys has mates.

Each of those mates has more mates. Suddenly you're into half the force. The miracle is, we're still reasonably watertight, at least as far as the paperwork is concerned." He paused. "Did you know about Whale Island?"

"No."

"Well, then…"

Faraday accepted the point with a curt nod. He was still curious to explore exactly what had happened back before Christmas but at least he now understood Willard's determination to keep Wallace and the u/c operation under wraps. Quite how Imber would react when he discovered he'd been out of the loop was anyone's guess but that, he told himself, would be Willard's problem.

"You want to answer that?" Willard drew Faraday's attention to his mobile. Faraday glanced at the number. Cathy Lamb.

"Do you mind, sir?"

"Go ahead."

Faraday stood up and retreated to the far end of the office. Behind him, Imber was still pressing Willard about the Gunwharf flat. Faraday paused beside the window, gazing out through a gap in the Venetian blinds. From the tone of Cathy's voice, he knew at once that it was bad news. J-J, she said, had been arrested at a petrol station in North End. Word that he was wanted had been out for several hours but he'd fallen into their laps after a call from the forecourt manager.

J-J had been acting suspiciously beside one of the pumps. He'd filled an empty two-litre bottle with unleaded and appeared to have no intention of paying. Control had dispatched an area car less than a minute away and after a brief chase J-J had been detained.

Faraday closed his eyes.

"Chase?"

"He legged it, Joe. And I understand there was a bit of a fracas."

"Is he OK?"

"Upset. I've talked to the Custody Sergeant at Central and he's aware of the situation. We've taken the case over from division because of the Scouse involvement but Highland Road have volunteered Rick Stapleton and Alan Moffat to handle the interview. I understand from Winter that you pretty much know the circumstances. Daniel Kelly? The student who died last night?"

Faraday was following a flock of racing pigeons as they wheeled over the nearby rooftops. Head north, he thought, and leave all this chaos behind you.

He bent to the phone.

"What's the charge?"

"There isn't one. Not yet. We're waiting on interview."

"What about someone who knows sign?"

"The Custody Sergeant's phoning through the names on the qualified interpreter register. So far, he's drawn a blank." She paused. "It may have to be you, Joe. We can't wait forever."

"Great." Faraday glanced at his watch, realising there was no point prolonging the conversation. Like it or not, Willard had to know. He thanked Cathy for the call and returned to the table. Willard knew at once that something had happened.

"OK?"

"Afraid not, sir." Faraday offered him a bleak smile. "Know a good solicitor?"

Within the hour, Faraday was ringing the entry phone at Central police station. A uniformed PC let him in and the duty Inspector emerged from an office up the corridor. From deep in the building came the rattle of bars and a yell from someone desperate for a fag. To Faraday's relief, it didn't sound the least like J-J.

"Your boy's in the cells. I'm afraid he's still cuffed."

"Is that necessary?"

"I'm afraid so. He's been' the Inspector was choosing his words carefully 'less than helpful."

Faraday nodded. He wanted to know whether Hartley Crewdson had arrived. For the time being, J-J could wait.

"We've put him in one of the interview rooms. You want tea or anything?"

"No, thanks."

Faraday followed the Inspector to the suite of interview rooms. Hartley Crewdson was a solicitor with a successful criminal practice in the north of the city. He specialised in defence work, representing a never-ending stream of young tearaways from the Paulsgrove and Leigh Park estates. Faraday had never had personal dealings with him before but was aware of the man's reputation. Half the DCs in the city thought Crewdson was a menace. The rest viewed him as a genius, the brief who could spot the weakness in any prosecution case. If you found yourself in a really tight corner, they said, then Crewdson's was the number you called.

The Inspector knocked lightly on the door before going in. Crewdson was sitting at the interview table, leafing through a thick file. His taste in suits and ties was never less than flamboyant, and for a man in his late forties, he'd won a big following amongst the more impressionable female clerks at the magistrates court.

"Leave you to it?" The Inspector nodded at Faraday and left, closing the door behind him.

Crewdson got to his feet. Faraday accepted the proffered handshake, curious to know why Crewdson had phoned him with the offer to represent J-J.

"Paul Winter gave me a ring," he said briefly. "He thought you might need a bit of support."

Faraday permitted himself a thin smile.

"Winter's right. You'll not have spoken to the lad?"

"Hardly. I was waiting for you to arrive."

"But you've talked to the Custody Officer?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"It's not as bad as you might think."

"Really?"

Faraday shed his jacket and sank into one of the four chairs. According to Crewdson, the evidence against J-J was at best thin. Winter and Suttle had photographed him arriving at Pennington Road. There was no evidence he'd left in possession of drugs. Neither had they seen money change hands. Eadie Sykes had volunteered a statement establishing that no drugs had been present in the student's flat, and in the shape of the videotapes, she appeared to have behavioural evidence to prove it. According to Sykes, the drugs had been dropped off early in the evening. She herself had taped the fixing sequence and everything else that followed. In terms of supply, J-J was therefore home free.

"What about the business with the petrol?"

"That's a mystery. No one knows."

"OK?" Faraday sat back. "So what do we do now?"

"I suggest he goes no-cpmment."

"Why?"

"Because that way we leave nothing to chance. The last thing we need is your boy saying anything' he smiled 'silly. The lad's going to be upset, bound to be. We can use that later, if they try and make anything of the no-comment."

"In court, you mean?"

"Yes."

"You think it'll come to that?"

"No. Not if we're sensible."

Faraday sat back a moment, trying to order his thoughts. The thrust of Crewdson's defence was obvious. J-J was about to become yet another stroppy, tight-lipped interviewee.

"That means it's down to us to make the case," he said at last.

"Exactly." Crewdson was smiling again. "But it's them, Mr. Faraday.

Not us."

Minutes later, the interview strategy agreed, Faraday went to find the Custody Sergeant. To his relief, it was someone he knew. The two men masked their mutual unease with a brisk exchange of nods. When Faraday enquired about someone to sit alongside J-J during the interview, the Custody Sergeant confirmed he'd drawn a blank on the two registered interpreters within the county.

"One's on holiday in Egypt. The other isn't answering her mobile."

"You've tried out of area? West Sussex? Surrey? Dorset?"

"To be honest, no, sir. I know the ACPO guidelines favour sticking to the register but we're up against the PACE clock. The lad needs communication support, no question, but…"

The Sergeant spread his hands. There was a brief silence, broken by Faraday.

"You're asking me to do it?"

"I'm asking whether you'd mind, sir."

"You think it's appropriate?"

"I think we ought to move things along."

"Good idea." Faraday eyed him for a moment. "Do you mind if I see him before we start?"

"Of course not."

The Custody Sergeant lifted a phone and summoned one of the jailers. A burly woman in a white blouse appeared moments later, and led Faraday down through the station to the cell complex at the end. Faraday had made this journey countless times before as a probationer, as a young CID aide, as a serving DC yet never had it occurred to him that he would, one day, be on the receiving end of all this watchful attention.

The bleakness of the place had never hit him quite this way before: the harsh neon lights, the institutional greens and whites, the way that the jangle of a bunch of keys echoed around corner after corner.

J-J was in a cell towards the end of the corridor. A concrete plinth beneath the window served as a bunk, and through the hatch in the grey steel door Faraday could see his son stretched full length on the thin sponge mattress. His eyes were closed and his bony wrists lay handcuffed on the rumpled bottom of his T-shirt. Faraday had never seen anyone looking so solitary, so cut off, so alone. Already, in the stir of air as the jailer unlocked and opened the door, he could smell the harsh tang of petrol.

J-J, hearing nothing, didn't move. Faraday glanced back at the jailer.

"Mr. Crewdson?"

The woman nodded and left. Faraday heard the key turn in the heavy door before she set off down the corridor. He reached out and touched J-J's face with the back of his hand. The boy's eyes opened, staring up at him, the way he might greet a total stranger. Faraday tried to coax a smile. When nothing happened, he turned his attention to J-J's wrists. The handcuffs were double locked, and the skin was raw and inflamed where the steel edges of the cuffs had chafed. J-J struggled upright on the mattress, holding his wrists in front of him the way you might carry a precious object.

"They hurt?" Faraday signed.

J-J shook his head. His face was pale and he wouldn't meet his father's gaze. When Faraday gave him a hug, he could feel a tremor running through his thin frame.

"What happened?"

Approaching footsteps paused outside the cell. A key turned in the lock and Faraday glanced back to find Hartley Crewdson stepping into the cell. The jailer was preparing to lock them in again.

"We need these cuffs off," Faraday told her. "He'll be fine now."

"I'll talk to the Custody Sergeant."

"You do that."

Crewdson, a tall man, was looking down at J-J. He must have been in this situation a thousand times, Faraday thought. Another youth colliding head-on with the judicial system. Another plea before the magistrates.

Faraday did the introductions. J-J offered the faintest of nods but his father was unsure whether he really understood what was about to happen.

"You're going to be interviewed," he explained. "Two policemen, two detectives. They'll be asking you what happened. All you need tell them is your name and date of birth. Everything else…" He glanced at Crewdson for support. "Just shake your head."

"That's right." It was Crewdson. "We know already what really happened and there are ways we can prove it. The detectives you'll be talking to may push you to make mistakes. As long as you say nothing, that can't happen. Everything's going to be fine. Just do what we say. OK?"

J-J was staring at his father as Faraday translated Crewdson's assurances into sign. Then his gaze transferred to the lawyer. This stranger might have been trying to explain the rules of a particularly complicated game. J-J's face was quite blank.

"You understand what we're saying?" Faraday signed.

J-J's slow nod put a smile on Crewdson's face. He reached out and patted J-J on the shoulder, then turned back to the door, calling for the jailer through the open hatch. J-J watched his every movement, something new in his eyes, and Faraday's heart began to sink again.

The interview started forty minutes later. Rick Stapleton had driven across from Highland Road, bringing another detective Alan Moffat with him. Faraday had been in charge of both DCs for three years on division, and once again he tried to defuse the awkwardness of the situation, this time with a brisk handshake. Stapleton was a lean thirty-three-year-old, openly gay, a detective whom Faraday had always rated extremely highly. Moffat, a slightly older man, had served on the Force Surveillance Unit before returning to the grind of volume crime. Neither man returned Faraday's smile.

The bare, white-walled room was equipped with both audio and video facilities. Central had been chosen to pilot video recordings of all interviews, and two cameras mounted high on the wall offered coverage of the table that dominated the room.

Stapleton and Moffat sat on one side of the table, J-J and his father on the other. Hartley Crewdson fetched a spare chair from an adjoining room, and stationed himself to J-J's left.

Stapleton raised an eyebrow and glanced at Faraday.

"OK?"

Faraday nodded, watching Moffat as he cued the video recorders. The audio machines were on the table, backed against the wall. Moffat sat down again, leaving Stapleton to reach for the printed checklist and go through the preliminary announcements that preface every interview.

Stapleton introduced himself and Moffat, confirmed the time and place, established that the interview was being recorded, and then turned to J-J.

"Please give your full name and date of birth."

Faraday signed the request. J-J looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. Surely his dad knew the answer? There was a brief silence before Faraday supplied the details. Stapleton glanced at Moffat. This was new territory.

"Your lad's supposed to speak for himself." He frowned. "If you see what I mean."

Stapleton returned to his script. After explaining what would happen to the recorded tapes and CDs, he glanced quickly up, looking at J-J, before ducking his head again.

"You do not have to say anything," he read. "But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

He paused, then looked at Faraday. "You want to tell him all that?"

"I just did."

"And he understands?"

"Of course he does."

"Good. So let's start with yesterday. As I understand it, you've been involved in the production of a video. Would you like to tell us something about that?"

Faraday hesitated a moment, then passed on the question. A shake of J-J's head would have been enough for "No comment." Instead, J-J bent towards the table, eyeballing Rick Stapleton, inviting the detective into his life, offering him a long account of exactly how he'd first met Eadie, how he'd shot black and white stills for her Dunkirk documentary, how she'd taught him to use a video camera, and how his involvement in Ambrym had slowly extended into a research responsibility for her new drugs project. The work, he signed, had been brilliant. Hard, but brilliant. He'd met loads of people. And Eadie had been right. Everyone should know about this stuff.

"Who's Eadie?"

"My dad's girlfriend."

"And the research was down to you?"

"Yes. I had to find the people we were going to tape." He extended his arm and mimed a syringe. "The users."

For Faraday, struggling to keep up with the blizzard of sign, this experience was quickly becoming surreal. This was the last year of J-J's life going onto the CDs and audio cassettes. Whatever happened to "No comment."?

When Stapleton paused to scribble himself a note, Faraday shot a look at Crewdson. The solicitor was gazing at J-J, appalled.

Stapleton took up the running again. When did J-J first meet Daniel Kelly?

"Couple of days ago. There was a girl called Sarah. I think she really wanted to be part of the video, help us make it. She thought it was a cool idea. She knew Daniel and told me about him."

"You met him?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

"Lost."

"Lost?"

"Confused. Sick." J-J clawed at his heart and pulled a face. Faraday hunted for the right word. "Wounded," he managed at last.

"Did he have friends?" Stapleton didn't take his eyes off J-J's face.

"I don't think so. Only Sarah."

"What about family?"

"His mum's in Australia. He never sees his dad."

"Would you say he was vulnerable?"

"Definitely."

"An easy target?"

Crewdson leaned forward, reaching towards J-J, trying to still those busy hands.

"This is totally inappropriate," he told Stapleton. "You're leading my client on."

"You think so?" Stapleton's eyes were stony. "I'd say we were simply establishing the facts. Mr. Faraday?"

On the point of supporting Crewdson's protest, Faraday realised that the question was directed at J-J. When he signed it to his son, J-J merely shrugged.

"I haven't got a problem," he signed back, looking at Stapleton. "Ask me whatever you want."

Faraday hesitated. The temptation now was to treat these answers with a certain degree of latitude, if only for J-J's sake.

"My son would prefer if you kept to the point," he muttered at last.

"He's happy to help with the facts."

"OK." Stapleton's gaze lingered on Faraday for a moment or two, then he returned to J-J. "Let's be clear about the situation here, Mr.

Faraday. Your job was to go and persuade Kelly to be in this video.

Kelly was a mess. That's why you were there, that's why you went to see him in the first place. Do you really think he was in any fit state to make a sensible decision? Be honest."

There was a brief pause while J-J thought about the question. Finally, he shook his head.

"The second time I saw him he was in a terrible state." The clawing motion again, then the syringe. "He needed heroin. He hadn't got any."

"The second time you saw him?"

"Yesterday. Before we did the interview."

"Did he want to do the interview?"

"I — " J-J was frowning "don't know."

Once again, Faraday was tempted to embellish the answer. J-J's despairing shrug, though, spoke for itself. Stapleton looked down at his notes, taking his time.

"But the interview happened, didn't it?" he enquired at last.

"Yes."

"So why did Kelly say yes? What made the difference?"

Hartley Crewdson intervened for the second time. In his opinion, this line of questioning was definitely prejudicial, planting suggestions in J-J's path, luring him into self-incrimination. Faraday was looking at the ceiling. Twenty-five years of policing told him the solicitor hadn't got a prayer.

Stapleton barely spared Crewdson a glance. Instead, he once again asked Faraday to pass the protest on to his son. What did J-J think?

J-J signed that he was OK with Stapleton's questions. He was here to explain exactly what had happened. Absolutely no problem.

"So answer the question. Why did Kelly agree to do the interview?"

J-J signed that he'd agreed to buy drugs for Kelly. Faraday turned to Stapleton.

"He says Kelly asked him a favour."

"What favour?"

Faraday glanced back at J-J, watching him mime a syringe in his arm again, realising that his fatherly attempts to shield his son from these remorseless questions were doomed. One way or another, J-J was determined to share the truth about yesterday's events. What might happen as a consequence didn't appear to trouble him in the least.

Stapleton was looking at Faraday. He wanted clarification on the last answer. Faraday sat back in his chair, suddenly aware of what guilt must feel like. Any more of this and he'd be facing a charge himself.

Perverting the course of justice.

"He's telling you that Kelly asked him to buy drugs."

"That's not what you said just now."

"I know. You wanted a clarification. I've just supplied it. OK?"

For the first time, Stapleton permitted himself a small, tight-lipped smile. It was, Faraday realised at once, a warning.

"Ask your son whether he agreed to buy the drugs."

Faraday signed the question. J-J nodded, slowing the signing, spelling it out, trying to cut his father out of the loop.

"Did Kelly tell you where to go?"

"Yes."

"He gave you money?"

"Yes."

"Where was the address?"

Lip-reading the question, J-J hand-signed Pennington Road. Faraday obliged with a translation.

"Number?" '30."

"And you bought the drugs?"

"They took the money off me."

"Who's "they"?"

"Two guys."

"Names?"

"One was called Terry."

"How much money did they take off you?" ' 90."

"And gave you the drugs?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"That's robbery. Why didn't you come to us?"

There was a silence while J-J tried to think of an answer. Faraday glanced across at Crewdson. To his surprise, the solicitor motioned for him not to intervene. Alan Moffat stirred, taking over from Stapleton. After he'd established that J-J had returned to Hampshire Terrace without the drugs, he asked about Eadie Sykes.

"She didn't know about the drugs," J-J signed.

"But she knew about the state of Kelly?"

"Yes."

"And she still went ahead with the interview?"

"Yes."

"Were you happy with that?"

There was a long moment of silence. Then J-J shook his head.

"Why not?" It was Stapleton this time.

"Because I thought it was cruel."

"Cruel how?"

"Taking advantage."

Stapleton nodded and scribbled himself a note before looking up again.

"What state was Kelly in by the time you did the interview?"

"Terrible, worse. You can see it on the tape."

"But still no drugs?"

"No, they came later."

"How?"

"Somebody came round. There must have been a buzz on the phone. I don't know."

"Were these the same people you'd met earlier?"

"I don't know. I never saw them."

Unprompted, through Faraday, J-J described what happened next. Eadie had taken over the camera. Daniel had injected himself, then stumbled away to bed.

"Like a drunk," J-J signed. "Like a zombie."

Stapleton leaned towards him. "And you had no part in any of that?"

"None."

"Why not?"

"I thought it was wrong."

"And what do you think now? Now that Daniel's dead?"

"I still think it was wrong."

"You think you were responsible for him dying?"

"No. He'd have died anyway."

"So why was it wrong?"

"Because we robbed him."

"Robbed him?"

Stapleton looked at Faraday to check the translation. Faraday confirmed it with a nod, resigned now to letting the interview run its course. Stapleton returned to J-J.

"Robbed him how? Robbed him of what?"

J-J took his time. He was staring at his father. Finally, he cupped a shape with his hands and then made a tiny turning motion with his body.

Faraday paused for a moment, reflecting on the gesture. Then he looked at Stapleton.

"I think he means Kelly's entire life," he said quietly. "By putting it on tape and taking it away, they stole it."

The interview ended at 17.05. Between them, Stapleton and Moffat went back over J-J's account, confirming details, asking for extra information, making it plain that J-J had to realise how important it was to be absolutely sure he hadn't missed anything out. Finally, almost as an afterthought, they enquired about the incident at the petrol station. Just what had J-J intended to do with two lit res of Supergreen unleaded?

Faraday, bracing himself for the next revelation, had dutifully signed the question. This time, to his relief, J-J simply shook his head.

"You don't know or you won't tell us?"

Another shake of the head. Stapleton looked to Faraday for help.

"He means, "No comment," Faraday said.

Afterwards, J-J was returned to his cell, scarcely sparing his father a backward glance. Faraday and Crewdson were shown into the Duty Inspector's empty office while Stapleton and Moffat conferred with the Custody Sergeant. The next half-hour, as Faraday knew only too well, would probably decide J-J's fate.

"What do you think?"

Crewdson had opened a window and lit a small cheroot.

"I think I might have been wrong." He expelled a thin blue plume of smoke. "Your boy was sensational. In a court of law he'd win a round of applause."

"I'm not with you."

"He confirmed everything they already know. Sure, he tried to score for Kelly but he did it with the best of intentions. There's no question that he was physically involved in supply, but every indication that he was appalled by what followed. There's something else, too."

"What's that?"

"You fucked around with a couple of the answers…" He paused.

"Didn't you?"

Faraday nodded, aware of the hot blush of colour rising in his face.

"Instinct," he muttered. "Couldn't help myself."

Crewdson gazed at him a moment, then stepped across. Faraday felt oddly grateful for the hand on his shoulder.

"I'm not blaming you for a moment," Crewdson said softly. "Any father would have done the same. It's just nice the whole interview's on video."

Faraday stared at the solicitor. The last hour or so had upset him more than he'd thought possible. Why the broad grin?

"You're telling me all that was inadmissible?" he said at last.

"Totally. They had no right to put you in that situation, total conflict of interest. Believe me, that interview won't get anywhere near a courtroom." He gave Faraday's shoulder a final pat. "They won't see it that way, of course, but then policemen never do."

The summons to the Custody Sergeant came shortly afterwards. Faraday followed Crewdson through to the Charge Room. They passed Stapleton and Moffat in the corridor. The two DCs were on their way out to the car park. Neither said a word.

The Custody Sergeant was standing at his desk, sorting through the paperwork from the arrest and interview. He acknowledged their presence with a nod, then reached for a pen, glanced up at the clock on the wall, and began to write. Finally, he closed the folder and capped the pen.

"I've had a word with DCs Stapleton and Yates." He tapped the file.

"I've also been through statements from DCs Winter and Suttle. Given the lad's cooperation, there's no point in remanding him. Under the circumstances, we're bailing him for two weeks, pending further inquiries. He needs to be back here on the fifth of April." He produced another form for signature. "Would you mind, Mr. Faraday?"