Cut to Black

Chapter fifteen

FRIDAY, 21 MARCH 2003, 10.30

The mortuary at St. Mary's Hospital occupies a remote corner of the sprawling inner-city site. Mid morning, sunshine spills onto the oblong of patched tarmac reserved for staff cars and undertakers' vans.

Eadie Sykes emerged from a side door and leaned back against the brickwork, grateful for the thin warmth.

No briefing, she now knew, could have prepared her for the realities of the post-mortem. Expecting some kind of variation on the operations she'd attended, she'd found herself in a butcher's shop. Her close-ups of the scalpel slicing through Kelly's waxy flesh, of the bile-green and vivid yellows of his dripping intestines, of the splintering crunch as the steel rib shears chopped through bone, had been bad enough. But what had followed once the belly and chest cavities had been exposed was to Eadie deeply shocking.

She'd often told herself she had a rare tolerance for life's uglier surprises. She could cope with the aftermath of motorway pile-ups and hard-core footage from combat zones. But the very deadness of what she'd just witnessed, the knowledge that any of us might one day become the carefully emptied carcass on the stainless steel slab, filled her with dread.

The air-conditioning vents were on the roof above her head and a breath of wind brought with it the sickly sweet smell of the next postmortem.

People like Pauline Schreck live with this smell every day of their working lives, she thought. Even in your sleep, a smell like that would never leave you. She shuddered, heading for her car. She stored the camera in the boot and retrieved her mobile from the glove box Amongst the stored messages was a number she didn't immediately recognise.

Eager to get out of this place as quickly as she could, she reversed the Suzuki into a tight turn and threaded her way back through the maze of buildings. Only when she'd emerged onto the main road, waiting for the lights to change, did she key the message tape.

A male voice, northern accent, wished her a very good morning. He'd driven down late last night. He was staying at the Marriott Hotel and he'd appreciate half an hour of her time. Might there be room in her schedule for a coffee? Mid morning? Say half ten? Eadie glanced at her watch. The Marriott was fifteen minutes away, up at the top of the city. Daniel Kelly's father was the last person she trusted herself to meet just now but she knew how important the contact might be.

When the lights changed, she hesitated for a second. Then she turned left, heading north.

Jimmy Suttle waited in his car while Winter took a look for himself. A minute later, he was back in the street. Disgust was something Suttle could recognise at twenty metres.

"Man's an animal." Winter pulled the car door shut behind him and dug in his pocket for a Werther's Original. I told him I'd call the RSPCA.

Put him out of his misery."

"What did he say?"

"Sod all. I think he's losing the will to live."

"So what do we do?"

"Untie him. Clean him up. Get him out of there. If Cath wants to put in an OP, some kind of ambush, there's nothing to stop her. The Scousers won't know Pullen's gone."

"OK." Suttle tried to mask his disappointment. He nodded at the flats across the road. "You want me to give you a hand?"

"Yeah… but there's something we ought to discuss first."

"What's that, then?"

"It's about young Trudy…" Winter pushed back the passenger seat and made himself comfortable. "You want to share anything with me?"

"Like what?"

"Like whether or not she was the bird you met yesterday."

"I told you already."

"Wrong, son. You told me you met her last night. I'm asking you whether she was the reason you bailed out of the house-to-house. A yes would be fine. For starters."

It began to dawn on Suttle that Winter was serious. Not just serious, but something else too. Pissed off? He wasn't sure.

"OK." he said carefully. "She asked for a meet."

"She asked?"

"That's right. Phoned up. Fixed a time and a place. Like you do."

"Any idea why?"

"She fancies me."

"Naturally. Any other reason?"

"She wanted to talk about' Suttle nodded across the road 'him upstairs."

He explained about how she'd gone to Bazza on the spur of the moment, told him everything, and how worried she was about the consequences.

"I'm not surprised." Winter nodded down at the mobile. "Give her a ring. Invite her round for a look. Might do our friend the world of good." He paused. "What else?"

"Nothing else."

"Except you shagged her."

"I did, yeah."

"Ever think that might not have been such a great idea? No, you didn't, did you. Just went right ahead, helped yourself. Look at me, son." Reluctantly, Suttle's head came round. Winter might have been his father. "Keen, was she?"

"Very."

"Got tonight planned? The weekend? Somewhere nice? Only if I were you, I'd be thinking abroad, somewhere remote. Patagonia's nice this time of year."

"What's the problem?" Suttle tried to defend himself. "It just happened. These things do. We had a couple of drinks, got it on. No harm in that, is there?"

"Plenty, my friend. In case no one else has ever mentioned it, let me have the honour. Screwing the customers is a really crap move, and you're talking to someone who knows. Getting emotionally involved is even worse."

"Who said I'm emotionally involved?"

"You went round to Pullen's first thing." Winter nodded at the building across the road. "Social visit, was it? Chance to compare notes? Or had you something else in mind?"

There was a long silence. Suttle was doing his best to hide his embarrassment.

"She's a kid," he said at last. "Christ knows what she was doing with a dosser like Pullen."

"Or Valentine, indeed."

"No." Suttle shook his head. "That was different. Turns out the thing with Valentine was platonic. They never got it on, much to her disgust."

"She told you that?" Winter didn't bother to hide his surprise.

"Yeah, and I believe her, too."

"So what was in it for him?"

"Dunno. Maybe he felt sorry for her. Maybe he just liked her, liked her being there, having her around. Ignore the attitude and she can be really sweet, yeah…" He nodded. "Really sweet."

"Maybe Valentine's gay? Or maybe he's just lost it?"

"No way." Another shake of the head. Trude says he's been shagging her mum."

"Misty? Valentine's shagging Misty?" Winter was grinning now.

"Yeah."

"Still?"

"Yeah. As far as I know."

"Excellent." Winter celebrated with another Werther's, his earlier hunch confirmed. "So where does that leave you?"

Suttle laughed. "Pretty sorted, if you really want to know."

"And Trude?"

"She's talking about going away. It's probably fantasy but she seems to mean it. Mentioned it twice last night."

"Poor you. Just when things were getting ' "No, no." Suttle grinned at him. "She wants me to go with her."

"Where?"

"Fuck knows."

"How?"

"Dunno. She says she's due money."

"Lots of money?"

"No idea."

"Are we talking holiday here?"

"Maybe."

"Something longer?"

"Possibly."

"And?"

"Well… it's a joke, obviously. She's a nice girl and everything but there's no way."

"Thank Christ for that."

"I'm not with you."

"No, and you won't be if you carry on like this." Winter turned to face him. "Listen, son. You're a bright lad, you cope OK, Christ, I even like you, but you're from way out of town and believe me that makes a difference. There's an etiquette here, things you just don't do in this city, and one of them is Trudy Gallagher. Why? Because Bazza regards her as a daughter, always has done, kith and kin, his own flesh and blood, and the last person he wants screwing the arse off her is anyone in the job. He'd take that personally, believe me."

"You're telling me Trude is Bazza's daughter? Only that would be news to Trude."

"I'm telling you nothing. I'm simply the messenger."

"He told you?"

"Good as."

"When?"

Winter looked at him a moment, then shook his head. He'd said his piece and now was the time to get back upstairs and sort Dave Pullen.

First, though, he ought to update Cathy Lamb.

He extended a hand. Suttle shook it. Winter gave a despairing sigh.

"The mobile, dickhead."

Faraday was back in his office in the MCT suite when Gisela Mendel rang. He recognised her voice at once, the clipped German accent, and reached for the pad by the phone.

"It's about the sale on the fort," she said at once. "Your Mr.

Mackenzie has been on to me again."

"And?"

"He says we need to set up a meeting for next week. He wants to bring his solicitor and says I ought to bring mine."

"What about other bidders?"

"He doesn't seem to think that'll be a problem."

"Really?" Faraday was calculating the time line. Mackenzie wanted to have a sort-out with Wallace over the weekend. Whatever he had in mind would presumably clear his path for a solo run at Spit Bank Fort. If Willard and Faraday were looking for proof of Mackenzie's confidence, then this was surely it.

"Last time we met, you mentioned a change of circumstances," Faraday said carefully. "Personal circumstances."

"That's right. My husband's started divorce proceedings."

"Which means the sale's for real?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Do you have a figure in mind?"

"Yes."

"Which you'll table next week?"

"Obviously."

"Do you mind telling me what that figure might be?"

There was a long silence. When Gisela finally answered, her voice had hardened.

"This is difficult, Mr. Faraday. Until now, as you know, it's been make-believe. I'm not asking for extra information, I don't want to know why I'm playing these games, all I'm saying is the rules have changed. I have to sell the place for real. I have to turn it into money. Of course I'd love 1,200,000 but no one's going to part with that kind of sum, not for Spit Bank. It would be nice if they did but it isn't going to happen. Frankly, given my husband's decision, I'm largely in Mr. Mackenzie's hands."

"You'll take what he offers?"

"I'll haggle, obviously, but… yes, I have no choice."

Faraday sat back. Not once had he thought beyond Mackenzie's impending meet with Wallace. That was the crux of Tumbril, the hinge on the investigative door, the single square on which they'd piled all their chips. What if the operation fell apart? What if by the end of next week Mackenzie had picked up this little piece of Pompey for a song?

"Have you told Mr. Willard any of this?"

"No, I tried but he was engaged."

"Fine, leave it to me." Faraday paused again, struck by another thought. "What happens if Mackenzie's unable to bid?"

"I don't understand."

"What if' Faraday knew already that this was a conversation he should never have started 'he suddenly loses interest?"

"Why on earth should he do that?"

"I've no idea, but tell me. Imagine the situation. No Mackenzie. And no one else."

There was another silence, longer this time.

"Are you serious?" she said at last.

Daniel Kelly's father was waiting in the coffee shop at the Marriott Hotel. Eadie spotted him at a corner table the moment she walked in, a smaller man than she'd imagined, dark suit, scarlet tie, enormous blue-rimmed glasses. He folded a copy of Variety and got to his feet.

He had a warm handshake, if slightly damp.

He signalled to a distant waitress. Eadie noticed curls of bacon rind on the edge of his empty plate.

"Late breakfast. You want something to eat?"

Eadie gagged at the suggestion.

"Coffee's fine," she said.

The waitress collected Kelly's plate and departed. The subsequent silence might have been awkward had Eadie not decided that this man deserved the truth.

"Your son was a mess," she said quietly. "A mess when he was alive, and a mess afterwards. I'm not sure you understand quite how bad that mess was."

Kelly rocked back in his chair. In certain moods, Eadie Sykes could have an almost physical impact.

"You said as much on the phone," he managed at last.

"I know. I just think it's worth repeating. I don't normally feel sorry for people but in Daniel's case I'm going to make an exception.

You failed him. I guess we all failed him. Poor little bastard."

"Is that why you're here? Give me a good slagging?"

"Not at all. I came because you left a message on my mobile. I suppose I'm just trying to be helpful. Fill in the missing bits."

"Sure, fine, you go ahead then. But you really think I haven't been through all this? How much I didn't know? How much I should have known? How it doesn't help to have a stranger barge into your life and tell you your son's just OD'd?"

"Are you talking about me?"

"No, I'm talking about the police. Nice enough guy, not his fault, just doing his job. But it doesn't help, does it? Knock on the door?

Seven o'clock in the morning? No reason to suspect your world's about to collapse?" He paused, reached for his empty cup, then changed his mind. There were tiny spots of colour high on his cheek. "Daniel's mother was an alcoholic," he said suddenly. "Did you know that?"

"Was?"

"Is. These days I often think of her as dead."

Eadie looked away for a moment, wondering how far to push this conversation. Anger was a force over which she had little control. She owed this man nothing. What the hell.

"Do you have any other family?" she inquired.

"No."

"Two down, then. None to go."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard what I said."

The waitress returned with the coffee pot. Kelly avoided Eadie's gaze while she poured. Then he changed the subject.

"You mentioned some kind of interview…"

"That's right."

"Are you still interested? Only' He gestured at the Filofax beside his cup '- I need to know."

"Schedule it in?"

"Whatever. Listen. I'm trying to help here. I'm looking at a ton of stuff to do, things to sort out Daniel's flat, undertakers, a funeral — and I have to be back home by tonight. I listened to you on the phone. Tell you the truth, I admire what you're doing, and I don't blame you for being so…" He frowned. "Uptight. You're right. I'm a tramp compared to my son. I sold out years ago. He never did. Not once."

"Sold out?"

"All this showbiz shit." He touched the magazine. "Believe it or not, I represent A-class celebs by the drawerful, names you wouldn't believe. Sport, soaps, movies Manchester's the place to be. And you know what it is with these people? They're all into drugs big time, billy, coke, smack, you name it. Show them serious money and they stick it straight up their nose. That's a fact. So tell me. How come they get away with it when Daniel…?"

"Maybe they don't. Ever thought of that?"

"Yeah? Then how come they're still alive and kicking? Still walking around? Still rich and famous?"

"Because people like you look after them, do their deals."

"Exactly. And you think that makes me feel any better? Sitting here with someone like yourself?"

Eadie brooded for a moment. There were images she simply had to off load She looked up.

"You said Daniel never sold out?"

"That's right."

"And you believe that? You think that's really the case?"

"I do."

"Then you're wrong, Mr. Kelly. I never knew Daniel, not properly.

What little I picked up came from a friend of his, a girl called Sarah."

"He mentioned her."

"I bet he did. My guess is that Sarah was the only thing that stood between Daniel and the fucking grave. That doesn't make it her fault, don't get me wrong, but when I say that Daniel sold out, what I'm really saying is this. The boy was obviously bright. He had a brain.

He had prospects, hopes, ambitions. He wanted to write a fucking novel for Christ's sakes. But what did he do before he picked the pen up? He looked for company, for love, just like the rest of us. And when it wasn't there, he found the next best thing and stuck it in his arm.

Friends are supposed to prevent that. And so are family."

"Daniel didn't have any family. He had me."

"I know. And here you are, taking him to the crematorium."

Eadie sat back, oblivious to the waitress at her elbow. The last thing she wanted just now was another cup of coffee.

Kelly was lighting a small cheroot. Hands like his son's, Eadie thought. Short, stubby fingers, nails bitten to the quick.

"Tell me something," Kelly murmured.

"Go ahead."

"Why are you so angry?"

"Angry?" It was a reasonable question. "Because I was there this morning, Mr. Kelly, and because I saw what happened. Have you ever been to a post-mortem? It's grotesque, truly fucking bizarre. First off, it's not too bad. There has to be a way of getting at all that plumbing so hey they cut you open. And then there's all that stuff they have to get at inside the ribcage, but that's no big surprise either. The right tools, it's a stroll in the park, crunch-crunch, all done. But then comes the head, and at that point, believe me, it gets personal. You know how they do it? They cut you from here to here."

Eadie traced a line across her head from ear to ear. "Then they peel your whole fucking face off so it's just hanging there. Then the scalp comes off too, backwards, all one piece, just like in the Westerns. You think that's bad? Just wait. They have this saw. It's called an oscillating saw. They run it right round your head and you're trying to keep the thing in focus in the viewfinder and you're wondering what the smell is, the new smell, and then you realise it's burning bone.

Bad shit, Mr. Kelly, but worse when the lid comes off the cookie jar, and you're standing about a foot from the body, and you're suddenly looking at somebody's brain. Know what happens then? It's help-yourself time. Out comes the brain and they take it across to the place by the window where they've put the rest of him and then they start cutting right through it, grey stuff, gloopy, wobbling around, slice after slice." She paused to catch her breath, then nodded.

"Daniel's brain, Mr. Kelly. Daniel's memories. Hopes. Fears.

Dreams. Everything he never got a chance to say. Everything he never told you. Just lying there in slices. Yuk."

Kelly had abandoned the cheroot. His hands were shaking. When he finally looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

"Have you finished?"

"No. I haven't." Eadie was looking for a Kleenex. "You still owe Daniel, big time." She blew her nose. "And I've got a camera in the car."

Faraday was late getting to Harry Wayte's birthday drinks. The social club was on the top floor at Kingston Crescent, a generous space with half a dozen tables and views across the rooftops towards the distant chalk fold of Portsdown Hill.

Harry was propped at the bar, a pint of lager at his elbow, entertaining a tight ring of well-wishers with a war story or two. The dawn drugs bust, middle of winter, when they chased a naked dealer halfway round Emsworth in the snow. The covert op when they arranged for the transmitting mike to be secreted in a new sofa, only to have the wife send it back because she couldn't stand the colour. Each of these yarns raised a collective chuckle, prompting other stories, and Harry stood in the middle of it, a big smile on his scarlet face, floating contentedly down this river of memories. There were worse things in life, Faraday thought, than being someone like this, a good solid cop, nearly thirty years of service, with the knowledge that he'd locked up far more than his share of quality villains.

Faraday ordered himself a half of Guinness, raising his glass in salute when Harry caught his eye. Moments later, Harry abandoned his audience and took Faraday by the arm. The crescent of banquette by the window was empty. Harry was already drunk.

"Back there, son."

"Where, Harry?"

"Downstairs. That poxy drugs meeting. No offence."

"Offence? What are you on about?"

"What I said." He frowned. "I know it's not P fucking C but sometimes you just get up to here with all the bullshit. Know what I mean?"

Faraday nodded. He knew exactly what Harry Wayte meant. Drugs were everywhere, an indelible stain. They turned families inside out.

They'd put Nick Hayder under the wheels of a car. They'd sent J-J on an errand that might still land him up in a prison cell. Small wonder guys like Harry, guys in the know, lost patience with management-speak.

Faraday patted him on the arm.

"Right or wrong, Harry. It needed saying."

"You mean that?"

"Yeah." He raised his glass again. "Happy birthday."

"Cheers. Here's to the next one. Same day, same place, eh?"

"I thought you were retiring?"

"I am. I've put my thirty in. September the twenty-third. Can't wait." He beckoned Faraday closer. "Seriously, Joe, you've been there, you've been around. What's your take? Think we're coping?

Scousers? Yardies? Kids running round with Glocks and sledgehammers?"

He went on, his finger in Faraday's face, painting an ever more lurid picture of urban chaos, a wide screen horror flick scored for psychotic adolescents with limitless ammunition. "It'll happen." He tapped the side of his cratered nose. "Believe me, Joe. And soon."

"You really think so?"

"I know so. It won't be my problem, except I fucking live here, but it might be yours." He gave Faraday a nudge, slopping his drink in the process. "And you know something else?"

"What's that, Harry?"

"We should legalise the fucking lot. Forget Class A, Class B, all that shit. Just make it all legit and then tax the arse off it. Clean gear and a million new hospitals. You heard it here first."

"You think that would work?"

"I think two things, Joe. Number one, it would take out every scumbag dealer in this fucking scumbag city bosh just like that. And number two, there's no way it'll ever happen. So… how do you explain that little poser? Because every other bloke you know's got a finger in the pie. It's big business, Joe. It's an industry. Legalise gear, and half the country half the planet are looking for a new job. Am I right?"

Faraday ducked the question. Most weeks now, correspondents to the letters page of Police Review magazine were banging the same drum, and lately there were signs that a lobby within ACPO some of the country's top police officers were beginning to despair of the current approach, but Faraday had yet to make up his mind. Friday nights in the city, largely fuelled by alcohol, were bad enough already. What would happen if you legalised everything else?

Harry Wayte was still demanding an answer.

"Haven't got one, Harry. The script says nick the bad guys, so that's what I try and do."

"But that's the point, Joe. Nicking the bad guys drugs-wise solves fuck all because the bad guys are everywhere. Put one away and another half-dozen turn up to take his place. It's numbers, Joe. It's Custer's last stand. Dien Bien Phu. We're fighting the wrong war."

It seemed to Faraday that Harry Wayte meant it. His passion for military history like his passion for model boats was well known, and if nothing else then his sheer length of service gave him the right to question the larger assumptions. Part of the problem nowadays was that old campaigners like Harry Wayte were too easily dismissed. Not everything in life responded to pie charts and SWOT analysis.

Faraday stole a glance at his watch.

"I'm with you, Harry," he said.

"Like how?"

"Like it's a bastard."

Faraday glanced up to find Willard looming over him. He wasn't smiling. When Harry struggled to his feet and offered to buy a drink, Willard ignored him.

"A word, Joe." Willard nodded towards the stairs. "If you can spare the time."

Willard shut the door to his office. He'd been talking to Gisela Mendel and he wanted to know what the fuck was going on.

"She's tell ling me she's going to be left high and dry," he said.

"Now who put that idea into her head?"

"High and dry how?"

"A fort on her hands and no one to sell it to."

"I've no idea, sir."

"She said she'd been talking to you."

"That's true."

"And she said you asked what would happen if Mackenzie wasn't around any more."

"That's not quite the way I put it."

"It wasn't? Well it didn't take too long for her to suss that's what you meant. This is u/c, Joe. This is a six-figure investment, God knows how much resource, and you've just blown the whole fucking caboodle. So far, she's been good as gold, completely on side She knows we're up to something. She knows Mackenzie's hot for it. And she knows Wallace is a plant. But that's all she knows. Or used to."

"I'm not hearing you," Faraday said softly.

"Too fucking right, you're not."

"No." Faraday shook his head, taking a tiny step closer. "You don't understand. From where I'm sitting, it goes like this. You or Hayder or whoever sets up the sting. The fort is the bait in the trap.

Mackenzie takes the bait. Is the fort really up for sale? No. Does our German friend have to pretend it is? Yes. Does it occur to her that we might have a professional interest in Mackenzie? Yes. Might she therefore draw one or two conclusions? Yes… unless she's very, very stupid." He paused. 7s she very very stupid?"

"How would I know?"

"I've no idea. Except her husband's suddenly suing for divorce."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"It means the game has changed. It means she doesn't want to play any more, not by our rules anyway. Show her a buyer Mackenzie — and she'll sell, for real. That says liability to me. That says she's got every interest in keeping Mackenzie a free man." He paused. "How well do you know her? Only now might be the time for a serious word or two."

Willard turned away. Standing by the window, he cracked open the Venetian blinds with his fingers, peered down into the car park beneath.

"Wallace has been on again," he said at length. "Mackenzie's come up with a time and place for Sunday. Wallace wants a face-to-face to talk it through."

"Both of us?"

"Just you, Joe. McDonald's off the motorway, two thirty. He'll probably have his handler with him." Willard was still staring down through the Venetian blinds. "OK?"