Cut to Black

Chapter thirteen

THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 21.12

Winter took a taxi to Southsea. The driver dropped him halfway down Sandown Road, scribbling a phone number for the return fare. Across the street, a substantial two-storey house was bathed in a lurid shade of green, an effect which gave the place a strangely unearthly look, as if it had just touched down from another planet. If you wanted to announce your arrival in this quietly prosperous enclave, thought Winter, then this was definitely the way to do it.

The driver shot Winter a look and then handed him the receipt.

"You should come by here on Mondays," he said. "Pink's even worse."

Winter watched the taxi disappear down the street. The house was protected by a sturdy brick wall, well over head height, with a timber trellis on top. Sliding steel gates barred a drive-in entrance, and there was another access door further down the street. The door, which was locked, looked new.

Winter fingered the button on the entry phone buzzed twice.

"Who is it?" A woman's voice.

"Paul Winter."

"Wait a moment."

There was a longish silence. Through the entry phone from somewhere in the depths of the house, a dog began to bark.

"He says to come in."

The door opened automatically, swinging inwards with a soft, electronic whine. For a moment Winter was tempted to applaud, then he spotted the CCTV camera, mounted on a pole beside the brick path that led towards the house. The floodlights with their green gels were set in tiny traps, recessed into the surrounding lawn, and Winter began to feel slightly nauseous. At first he put it down to the third glass of Laphroaig but a glance at the backs of his hands flesh the colour of putty told him otherwise. A couple of minutes out here, and you'd think you'd strayed into the fun fair. The Chamber of Horrors, maybe.

Or the Ghost Train.

The camera tracked Winter as he headed down the path. The front door opened, and Winter found himself face to face with Mackenzie's wife.

"How was Chichester?" he said pleasantly. "Buy anything nice?"

Marie stepped aside to let him in, saying nothing. She was wearing a dressing gown belted at the waist. Barefoot, she smelled of the shower.

The interior of the house had been recently gutted, walls torn down to create an enormous open space. A glass conservatory had been added, deepening the living area, and the linen blinds glowed aquarium-green against the wash of the lights outside. A crescent of leather sofa faced a wide screen TV. The TV was tuned to a news channel, shots of heavy armour churning through the desert. A plate of salad on the low table beside the sofa had barely been touched.

"He's in the den. Said to go through. Second on the left."

Marie nodded at a door in the far corner of the room. The door was heavy, new again, and swung closed the moment Winter stepped through. A carpeted hall was flanked with more doors. After the yawning emptiness of the living area, it felt suddenly intimate. Decent watercolours harbour scenes on the walls. A golf putter and half a dozen yellow balls littering the long run of carpet.

"In here." The summons came from an open door on the left. Winter stepped into a softly-lit room dominated by a big, antique desk. Tiny television monitors were racked on the wall beside the desk and Winter recognised the path to the front gate on one of them.

"Expecting company, Baz?"

Mackenzie ignored the dig. He'd bought the latest motion-sensitive software. Anything that moved in the garden, he'd be the first to know. At two grand off the internet, he regarded this latest toy as a steal.

"You should be here when we get a bit of wind in the trees." He nodded at the monitor screens. "Whole lot goes bonkers."

Winter unbuttoned his coat and sank into one of the two armchairs. The last time he'd seen Bazza Mackenzie was a couple of years back at aCID boxing do on South Parade pier. They'd shared a bottle of champagne while two young prospects from Leigh Park belted each other senseless.

"Lost a bit of weight, Baz. Working out?"

"Stress, mate, and too many bloody salads. Marie started going to a health farm last year. Worst three grand I ever spent. You know why we moved here?"

"Tell me."

"It's at least a mile to the nearest decent chippy. She measured it in the Merc then phoned me up and told me to put the deposit down. You'd think it would be views, wouldn't you? And the beach? And all these posh neighbours? Forget it. We live in a chip-free zone. Welcome to paradise."

Winter laughed. Unlike many other detectives, he'd always had a sneaking regard for Bazza Mackenzie. The man had a lightness of touch, a wit, an alertness, that went some way to explaining his astonishing commercial success. You could see it in his face, in his eyes. He watched you, watched everything, ready with a quip or an offer or a put-down, restless, voracious, easily bored.

In the wrong mood, as dozens could testify, Bazza Mackenzie could be genuinely terrifying. Nothing daunted him, least of all the prospect of physical injury, and Winter had seen the photographic evidence of the damage he could do to men twice his size. But catch him in the right mood and you couldn't have a nicer conversation. Bazza, as Winter had recently told Suttle, had a heart the size of a planet.

Whatever he did, for whatever reason, he was in there one thousand per cent, total commitment.

"What's this, then? New chums?"

Winter was inspecting a gaudy mess of colour snaps pinned to a cork wallboard, one image overlapping with the next, briefly-caught moments in the cheerful chaos of Mackenzie's social life. One of the latest photos featured four middle-aged men posing on a putting green. They all looked pleased with themselves but it was Mackenzie who was holding the flag.

"Austen Bridger, isn't it?" Winter was peering at a bulky, scarlet-faced figure in slacks and a Pringle sweater.

"That's right. Plays off seven. Unbeatable on his day. Look at this, though. Here…" Mackenzie dug around in a drawer, then produced a scorecard and insisted Winter take a look. "Three birdies and an eagle. Cost him dinner at Mon Plaisir, that did. Foie gras, turbot, Chablis, the lot. Marie gave me serious grief for weeks after."

He retrieved the scorecard and gazed at it while Winter's eyes returned to the cork board. Austen Bridger was a solicitor with a booming out-of-town practice in a new suite of offices in Port Solent. He specialised in property and development deals, high-end stuff, and had the executive toys to prove it. Away from the golf course, he sailed a 350,000 racing yacht which regularly featured in the columns of the News. Another winner.

Mackenzie was on his feet now, ash-grey track-suit and ne wish-looking Reeboks. He began to poke through the photos on the cork board, hunting for a particular shot.

"Here." He unpinned it. "Dubai at Christmas. Can't do too much for you out there. Marie loved it. See that ramp thing in the background?"

Winter was looking at a beach shot. Mackenzie and his wife were posed against the brilliant blue of the sea. Marie was an inch or two taller than her husband and for a middle-aged woman, bikini-clad, she was in remarkable nick.

"What ramp thing?"

"There. Look." Mackenzie tapped the photograph. "It's for water skiing. Day one you get to stand up. Day two you go tearing off round the bay. Day three they tell you about jumping and ramps and stuff, and day four you get to cack yourself. Amazing experience. You ever done it?"

"Never."

"Brilliant. Some blokes do it backwards. Backwards, can you believe that? Can't wait, mate. Still on the Scotch, are you?"

Without waiting for an answer, he went across to a filing cabinet and produced a bottle of Glenfiddich from the top drawer. A glass came from a table in the corner. It was down to Winter to pour.

"You?" Winter was looking at the single glass.

"Not for me."

"Why not?"

"Given up."

"You're serious?"

"Yeah, just for now. I'm nosey, if you want the truth. I've spent so much time pissed, all this is a bit of a novelty." He waved a hand around, a gesture that seemed to have no geographical limit, then he settled back behind the desk, a man with important news to impart. "You know something about this city, something really weird? It's about the way you look at it. As a nipper, you just do your thing, head down, get on with it. A little bit older, you follow your dick. A bit older still, you maybe get married, all that stuff. But you know your place, right? Because everything's bigger than you are. Then, if you're lucky, you wake up one morning and there it is, there for the taking."

"What?"

"The city. Pompey. And you know why? Because this place is tiny. Get to know maybe a coupla dozen guys, the right coupla dozen, and there's nothing you can't do. Nothing. We're not talking bent, we're just talking deals, one bloke to another. And you know something else? It's easy. Easier than you can ever believe. Suss how it's done, make the right friends, and you start wondering why every other bastard isn't doing it too."

"So what does that make you?"

"Lucky." He reached for a paper clip and began to unbend it as he elaborated on this new world of limitless opportunities. How one deal led to another. How business could breed some genuine friendships. How wrong he'd been about some of the middle-class blokes he'd always had down as wankers. Fact was, a lot of them were hard bastards, knew how to live with risk, knew how to party. Collars and ties, in the end, were nothing but camouflage.

"Know what I mean?"

Winter nodded, his eyes returning to the cork board. Then he took a long swallow of Glenfiddich, the drift of this sudden outburst of Mackenzie's slowly slipping into focus. The city, he was saying, had become his plaything, the train set of his dreams. He could alter the layout, mess with the signalling, change the points, play God.

A smile warmed Winter's face. Bazza Mackenzie, he thought. The Bent Controller.

Mackenzie was on his feet again, restless. He'd found another photo, framed this time: a young bride on her wedding day, beaming out at the world.

"You hear about my Esme? Pregnant. As of last week. That makes me a grandfather. Sweet, eh?"

"Must be. I wouldn't know."

"Shit, I forgot." He paused, looking down at Winter, then patted him on the shoulder the way you might comfort a sick dog. "Sorry about your missus, mate. A while back, wasn't it?"

"Two years ago next September." Winter gazed at his glass for a moment, wondering how Bazza had got to know about Joannie. Then his head came up again. "You must be proud of her."

"Who?"

"Esme. Not just the baby, everything else."

"Yeah, definitely. The girl's done well. Most of that's down to Marie if you want the truth, but that doesn't stop me being silly about her, does it? She called up tonight, matter of fact. She'll be through with uni this year and she's looking for chambers to take her on. Turns out some shit-hot briefs in town have offered her a pupil lage if her degree turns out OK. Couldn't wait to tell us."

"And the baby?"

"Fuck knows. I'm putting it down for Winchester the moment it appears."

"The nick?"

"The school." Mackenzie barked with laughter. "Marie's idea. Put a bit of class back in the family. Women these days, do it all, don't they?"

Winter was thinking about Misty Gallagher. Her role in Mackenzie's life was common knowledge amongst a certain slice of Portsmouth life.

So where did she figure on the cork board?

Mackenzie dismissed the question with a shrug.

"Silly girl, Mist. Can't take a joke. Shame, really." He looked morose for a moment, then visibly brightened. "Don't want a nice harbour side apartment, do you? Yours for seven hundred grand."

"You've put it on the market?" Winter feigned amazement.

"Yeah. Wait a week, and you'll be looking at seven fifty. View like that, they'll be queuing for it."

"And Trudy?"

Trude'll be OK. She's a survivor, that girl. Has to be, living with Mist."

"I thought she was tucked up with Mike Valentine?"

"No way. Mike's got a bob or two, saw her right, but he's old, isn't he? Trude's a kid. Doesn't want some wrinkly like Mike."

"Or us."

"Yeah."

"Or Dave Pullen."

Mackenzie didn't answer. The temperature in the room seemed to plunge.

After all the joshing, all the catching-up, Winter had bent to Mackenzie's train set and thrown the points.

Mackenzie was staring at Winter. In certain moods, he had the blackest eyes.

"Is that what this is about, then? Mr. Dave fucking Pullen?"

"Partly, yes."

"Well don't worry about that arse-wipe. He's taken care of."

"Since when?" Winter was genuinely surprised.

"Since' Mackenzie glanced at his Rolex 'about an hour ago. What else do you want to know?"

Winter was eyeing the bottle. Glenfiddich wasn't quite his favourite malt but under circumstances like these it would certainly do. He splashed a generous measure into his glass and swirled it round. With people like Mackenzie, it sometimes paid to keep them waiting.

"My bosses have got this thing about law and disorder," he said at last. "Keeping it private, keeping it out of sight, is one thing. What Chris Talbot did at the railway station was something else."

"Like what?

"Like stupid. And like unnecessary."

"Says you."

"Says my bosses. And they've got a point, too. If you can't run a business without pulling those kinds of strokes, then maybe you ought to let someone else have a go."

Mackenzie hated criticism. With the sole exception of his wife, people never talked to him like this. He'd visibly stiffened behind the desk.

All the chumminess, all the little flurries of wit, had gone. Winter, aware that this conversation had to deliver some kind of truce, tried to coax a smile.

"Think of me as the poor fucker in no-man's-land," he began. "I'm waiving the book of rules. I'm here to tell you to cool it. Call off the dogs, ignore the Scousers, and it'll be business as usual."

"Rules bollocks." Mackenzie was angry now. "If your bosses are so fucking keen on business as usual, then how come they're trying to put me away? Talking to the bank? To my accountant? Sticking blokes across the road in clapped-out Fiestas?" He paused for long enough to let Winter raise an eyebrow. "You think I don't know about all that shit? Operation Tumbril? Three men and a dog banged up on Whale Island? You go back and tell them they haven't got a prayer. Not a fucking prayer. And you know why? Because I can afford the kind of advice they'd only ever dream about. And you know something else?" He jabbed a finger at the photos on the cork board. "That advice is kosher, legit, paid-for. Problem with you blokes is you're either skint or looking the wrong way when the big deals go down." He was on the edge of his chair now, leaning forward across the desk. "A little word in your ear, my friend. Watch the press."

"The local press?"

"Absolutely. Give it a couple of days and we might be able to put this conversation in perspective. Big announcement. Major acquisition.

Hundreds of grand." He nodded, belligerent, proud of himself. "You know what really pisses me off about you lot? A bloke comes along and works his arse off for this city, pours in millions, one-man fucking regeneration agency for that poxy Osborne Road, and what does he get for his troubles? Operation fucking Tumbril. How's that for gratitude, then? No wonder this city's halfway down the khazi."

Winter tried to hide his smile. Not only did Mackenzie believe all this stuff but most of it was probably true. Add a recently purchased kitchen equipment shop to his cafe-bars and tanning salons, and this man was transforming Osborne Road. Drugs money or otherwise, the heart of Southsea would be shabbier without the likes of Bazza Mackenzie.

"Just think about it," Winter said quietly. "That's all we're saying."

"What's this "we", then? They ask you to come here?"

"They?"

"Those fucking bosses of yours."

"Of course they didn't. It's called initiative. Went out the window years ago."

"And if they knew you were here?"

"Major bollocking. Either that, or another form to fill in. Listen, Baz, I'm just telling you, marking your card. Chasing Scouse kids round the city just isn't worth the hassle. Some people hate the sight of blood. You'd be amazed."

"That's not the point. What else am I supposed to do? Dial treble nine? Come running to you lot? My line of work, it's just that."

"Just what?"

"Business. Blokes try and muscle in, we give them a hiding. Same with Pullen. Twat like him messes with Trude, he knows exactly what to expect. That's the thing about us." The laugh again, abrupt, challenging. "We're dead straight. What you see is what you get."

Mackenzie nodded towards the door. The gesture was Winter's cue to leave. Back on his feet, he drained the last of the malt and buttoned his coat. Mackenzie came round the desk. Close to, Winter suspected he'd begun to use blond tint on his hair.

"Another thing about young Trude." Mackenzie wasn't smiling.

"Yeah?"

"Don't even think about it, OK?"

"Me?"

"Any of you guys."

Winter nodded, giving the threat due respect, then paused beside the door.

"One thing I need to know, Baz." He nodded at the curtained window.

"What's that?"

"Why green gels?"

"Ah…" Mackenzie touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Colour of envy, mate."

Trudy lay on her side, her head supported on her elbow, her hair tumbling over Suttle's face.

"Going to sleep on me?"

"Yeah."

"You were brilliant. You're allowed."

"Thanks."

"I mean it." She wetted her forefinger and traced a love heart across his naked chest. "What about me, then. OK, was I?"

"I've had worse."

"Bastard." She leaned over him and retrieved a copy of FHM from the carpet beside the bed. "What's this, then?"

Suttle opened one eye and found himself looking at a familiar photo spread of Jennifer Lopez.

"Forget it," he mumbled. "You'd fuck her out of sight."

"You mean that?"

"Definitely. Except she's the one with the money." He snatched at the magazine, then tossed it across the tiny bedroom. "There's half a bottle of white in the fridge, if you fancy it."

"You get it."

"You're closest."

There was a stir of cold air as she pulled back the covers. Suttle heard the soft pad of her footsteps on the stairs and the distinctive click as she opened the fridge door. Seconds later, she was back in beside him. The way her flesh goose pimpled reminded him of the night they'd found her trussed to the bed in Bystock Road.

"You first." She'd only found one glass.

"No, you."

He watched her sipping the wine and realised he hadn't been so happy for months. It can't be this simple, he kept telling himself. This easy.

She offered him the glass. When he reached out for it, she shook her head and dipped a finger before slipping it into his mouth. He sucked it for a moment, then asked for more. She smiled at him in the half darkness and Suttle caught the chink of glass as she lodged the glass beside the bottle on the cluttered bedside table.

"I meant more wine."

"I know you did."

"You're outrageous."

"Yeah?" She was straddling him now, her breath warm on his face. "Tell me something."

"What?"

"Just say I had lots of money. Pots of it."

"And?"

"Would you come away with me? Seriously, would you?"

"Come away where?"

"Dunno." She nuzzled his cheek for a moment and then began to lick his ear. "Wherever you like, really. Abroad? America? Thailand? Oz?

Don't care."

"You mean for a holiday?"

"Whatever."

"Not a holiday?"

"Doesn't matter. Just you and me."

Suttle gazed up at her for a moment and then tried to struggle free, but Trudy was stronger than she looked.

"I've got you." She began to giggle. "And you still haven't answered the question."

Faraday was on the way to Eadie Sykes's apartment when his mobile began to chirp. It was Willard. Faraday pulled the Mondeo into a parking space on the se afront and killed the engine.

"You called," Willard grunted. "If it's about that boy of yours, forget it."

"Forget what, sir?"

"Whatever you were going to tell me. As I understood it, no charges have been laid. Police bail pending further inquiries. Am I right?"

"Yes, but the point is ' "Wrong, Joe. There is no point. Nothing has changed unless you're telling me you want out, and even then you'd have to have a bloody good excuse." He paused. "As I understand it, there's fuck-all evidence against the boy, not when it comes to a serious charge. Anything else?"

Faraday stared into the darkness beyond the promenade. A late car ferry was heading out towards the Isle of Wight, leaving a long, white tail of churning water. Just how could he voice the thousand and one questions J-J had left in his own wake? About gullibility? About other people taking advantage? And most important of all about the sudden gap that had opened up between father and son? None of these issues was of the remotest relevance to Tumbril, and Willard doubtless knew it.

"Nothing else, sir."

"Good. Heard from Wallace yet?"

"No. I left a message."

"Bell me when he rings. Doesn't matter how late."

"Of course."

Minutes later, he let himself into Eadie's apartment building. Up on the third floor, the door to her flat was open, and Faraday caught the breathless tones of the BBC newscaster while he was still on the stairs. Coalition forces were attacking the Iraqi port of Umm Qasr.

Preliminary reports from the advancing columns of armour suggested that the city's defenders were on the point of surrender. Tony Blair, meanwhile, had returned from an EU summit to stiffen the nation's resolve.

Faraday walked into the flat. Eadie was stretched on the sofa, engrossed in the news report, the remains of a takeout curry on a tray on her lap. After a while, Faraday moved into her eye line "Hi." She barely looked up.

"Hi." Faraday stared down at her. He'd rarely felt angrier. "Are we going to talk or shall I come back later?"

"Give me a minute, OK?" She nodded at the screen. "Then you can get it all off your chest."

"No." Faraday shook his head and reached for the zapper. When he couldn't find the mute button, he turned the whole set off. Eadie was about to react, then had second thoughts. There were a couple of tinnies in the fridge. Maybe, for the sake of his blood pressure, a cold Stella might be wise.

Faraday ignored the suggestion.

"You knew," he said thickly. "You knew this morning and you didn't tell me."

"Knew what?"

"That the kid was dead."

"Ah… young Daniel." She nodded. "My apologies. Mea fucking culpa."

"So is that it?" Faraday couldn't believe his ears. "You step into this kid's life, drag my son with you, tape the lad while he kills himself, and leave him to die? Endgame? Finito? Too bad?"

"You're being dramatic' "Dramatic? The boy's dead, Eadie. That's big time. We cops sometimes call it murder. In fact, this afternoon they very nearly did."

"They?"

"Yes, they. Thanks to you, I've just spent a couple of hours trying to keep my son out of the remand wing at Winchester prison. That might mean nothing to you but I'm telling you now it made a very big hole in my day."

"I know."

"You know} How do you know?"

"J-J told me. There's not a lot you can get into a text but I caught the drift."

"What did he say?"

"He said you tried to shut him up. You and a lawyer."

"He's right. We did."

"And he said he thought that was bullshit. So he went right ahead and told them the way it had been."

"That's right, too. Completely reckless."

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "So how come he's still a free man?"

"Christ knows. I've left guys in the cells for thirty-six hours on less evidence. That could have been J-J. Easily. Thanks to you."

There was a long silence. A lone car whined past outside. Finally, Eadie put her tray to one side.

"I thought this was about Daniel Kelly?" she muttered. "Or is he division two compared to J-J?"

"That's cheap."

"Sure, and you're being irrational. Listen Joe, you're right. The kid's dead. It happened to happen last night. Equally, it could have happened last week, or last month, or tomorrow, or fuck knows when. All I know is the thing was inevitable. He was a funeral on legs. I hate to say it but we're not talking big surprise here."

"And that makes it OK? When you've supplied the gear?"

"I didn't supply the gear."

"No, but J-J did, or helped to, at least. And you know why? Because otherwise you wouldn't have got your precious bloody interview. That's called pressure. And in the end the pressure came from you."

"OK." Eadie conceded the point with a nod. "So I believe in what I do. Does that put me in the wrong? When the kid would have scored in any case?"

"You don't know that."

"You don't? You think I'm making all this stuff up? You want to see the way he looked? The state of him? Be my guest. We'll run the rushes again. Evidence, Joe. Pictures you can't fucking dispute. If J-J hadn't run the errand for him, he'd have found someone else. It's called money, my love, and it'll buy you anything."

"Don't patronise me."

"I'm not. I'm pointing out the facts of life. You don't believe me?

OK, so here's something else for that poor aching head of yours. What tells me we've taken the right decision, done the right thing, are those."

"What?"

"Those." She was pointing at the pile of video cassettes beside the TV. "I've told you. Poor bloody Daniel Kelly was a basket case. He'd lost it. He didn't care any more. But the way things turned out we might at least be able to rescue something from the wreckage, offer some kind of hope for the future. Not Daniel's but maybe other kids', lots of other kids'. When you've calmed down you're going to ask me whether I regret what happened last night but I'm telling you now the answer is no." She looked up at him, weary now. "Can't you see that?"

"No, I can't. But that's not the point."

"It isn't?"

"No. The point is that you didn't tell me."

"You're right." She nodded. "I didn't. I knew, and you were in the flat when I took the call, and I didn't pass the message on."

"Exactly." He took a deep breath. "So explain to me why."

"You're sounding like a cop."

"That's because I am a cop. It's what I do. But that makes it complicated, doesn't it? Because I'm also a father. And I'm also..

" he began to founder, gesturing at the space between them '… part of whatever this is."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"So what is this?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake ' "No, seriously, if it all boils down to this morning, then we ought to get down to basics, strip the thing off a little. OK, I should have told you. For a thousand reasons, I owed you that news. But, hey, hands up, I didn't pass it on. And why didn't I pass it on? Because I knew that it would lead to this. Not tonight but this morning. And to tell you the truth, the absolute truth, I had more important things to sort out."

"Like what?"

"You don't want to know."

"Try me."

"There's no point."

"No point} See? You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Keeping it all to yourself. Keeping me at arm's length. We're supposed to be having a relationship here. I know it's old fashioned but that involves just a little bit of trust. I've been here before, my love. If you won't tell me about Daniel Kelly, and about whatever else, then I just might start thinking."

"You do that."

"Yeah…?" Faraday gazed down at her for a long moment, then turned away. The view from the window, for once, made absolutely no sense at all. Random lights. Lots of darkness. Then he sensed a movement behind him, felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Listen, Joe…" For once in her life, Eadie sounded unsure of herself.

"Listen what?"

"Haven't we had good times?"

"Of course we have."

"And isn't that important?"

"Yes." Faraday nodded. "But good times are the easy bit. I'm just asking you to be honest with me."

"I'm sorry. I apologise."

Eadie slipped between him and the view, suddenly contrite. For a moment Faraday wasn't at all sure if this wasn't tactical, another puzzling little bend in their road, but when she nodded back towards the sofa he allowed himself to sit down. Some of the anger had boiled away and he was grateful when she returned with a Stella from the fridge.

"Drink this." She pulled the tag on the can. "Then I'll tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"About tomorrow."

"More glad tidings?" He shot her the beginnings of a smile.

"Afraid so. Two big gulps now. Attaboy."

She waited until he'd poured the lager and taken a long pull. Then she told him about the post-mortem she'd arranged to tape. Kelly's father had faxed his permission and the coroner was on side There was no guarantee she'd ever use the footage but it wasn't the kind of sequence you could ever reconstruct.

Faraday absorbed the news. A lifetime of postmortems had left him more or less indifferent to dead flesh. The sight of Daniel Kelly weaving his way to his grave had been far, far worse.

Eadie was eyeing him with obvious caution.

"You don't want to shout at me?"

"No."

"Thank God for Stella." She leaned across and kissed him. "You want the remains of the curry? Only J-J's left most of his."

"J-J?"

"Yes."

"He's been here?"

"He's in the spare bedroom. Asleep."

"You're serious?"

Eadie thought about the question for a moment or two, then frowned.

"Tall bloke? Skinny? Bit quiet?"

She got to her feet and returned to the kitchen, leaving Faraday to absorb this latest revelation. He heard the pop of the gas as she fired up the oven, ready to warm the curry. Moments later, she was back with three poppadoms and a bowl of onion chutney. She gave a poppadom to Faraday, and then took his hand.

"J-J was adamant. No way was he sleeping at home." She glanced briefly towards the bedroom. "You two guys have some talking to do."