Cut to Black

Chapter sixteen

FRIDAY, 21 MARCH 2003, 13.30

Eadie Sykes, driving back from the Marriott, felt strangely lightheaded. After the darkness of the post-mortem and a conversation she should never have inflicted on someone in Kelly's position, she'd ended up with the interview of her dreams: a full-frontal glimpse of a father racked by guilt, determined to share his grief and anger with as wide an audience as possible. Deaths like Danny's, he'd muttered at the end, gave you nowhere to hide. No one should ever have been that alone.

Afterwards, in the privacy of his hotel room, she'd given the man a hug and apologised. She should never have been so direct, so brutal. Down there in the coffee shop, he'd had every right to walk away.

Kelly had given her a strange smile.

"If I knew you better, I'd say you did it on purpose," he'd told her.

"You'd make a great lawyer."

"You really believe that?"

"Yes." He'd nodded. "I do."

Now, driving back through the city, Eadie wondered if what he'd said was true. Manipulation was part of the game, she knew it was, but this morning for once she felt she'd lost control completely. There were times when she saw no point fighting the truth and the sight of Kelly in the coffee shop had been one of them. The fact that some kind of relationship had survived was a bonus she'd no right to expect, as were the contents of the digital cassette she'd tucked in her bag.

Back at the Ambrym offices and feeling infinitely more cheerful, she found J-J hunched over the PC. Beneath a day's growth of beard, he looked pale and withdrawn. His eyes had a watchfulness, an intensity, that she'd never seen before, and when she tried to coax him into the beginnings of a conversation, he plainly wasn't interested. Normally, J-J could fill a room with his warmth and enthusiasm, almost deafen you with his animation and his exploding bubbles of sign. Today, though, he was practically invisible.

Last night at the flat, before Joe came round, they'd had a long set-to about the Daniel Kelly project. Deeply uncomfortable with his own role in the student's death, J-J wanted nothing more to do with the production. He'd been OK with the research and the reading, more than happy to make friends with the people they were trying to help, but what had happened in the taping session had shocked him. There were ways you didn't push people, he'd signed, short cuts you shouldn't take. Eadie, in his view, had ignored all that and he was ashamed to have been part of what followed. The same had happened at the police station. It was a game they were playing. There were weird rules and lots of stuff you weren't supposed to talk about, and no one seemed to realise that someone had just died. That his dad, of all people, should be part of this pantomime he'd found inexplicable. He was, once again, ashamed.

Eadie, who had limited room in her life for the concept of shame, had defended herself and Faraday with some vigour. In J-J's world, she told him in an elaborate mime, he'd never make an omelette because he could never steel himself to break an egg. Sometimes the hard thing to do was the right thing to do. J-J, who loved omelettes, was mystified.

What did eggs have to do with Daniel Kelly?

At this point, thankfully, J-J had started to laugh. Eadie cemented an uneasy truce with an offer to phone for a takeout curry and they'd been expecting the delivery when the speakerphone buzzed. Instead of the driver from the Indian Cottage, a small, rotund emissary from the Stop the War Coalition came puffing up the stairs. He understood Eadie had been taping video sequences from the evening's demo. He'd also been told that she had access to broadcast-quality editing software. Eadie said yes to both questions and found herself listening to a proposal she found instantly irresistible.

Comrades in London, said the man, were recording broadcast feeds from Al Jazeera, the Qatar-based Arab news station. Twenty-four hours into the war, their footage from areas under bombardment in Baghdad and Basra was already graphic. This kind of material would never find its way into Western news coverage, not least because it might shame the watching audience into doing something about this obscene adventure.

The Stop the War Coalition were therefore wondering about the possibility of somehow showcasing the worst that Al Jazeera might be able to supply.

Eadie had got there before him.

"Three elements." She'd tallied them on her fingers. "The Arab footage. UK protest sequences. And all that jerk-off stuff we're seeing on BBC News 24."

"Jerk-off stuff?"

"Cruise missile launches. Guys loading bombs onto airplanes. Carrier battle groups Tank commanders riding into battle. Apache gunships."

"Top GunV

"Exactly."

The activist had liked that a lot. A call to London confirmed that the first whack of Al Jazeera footage could be FedEx'd next day. BBC News Z4 pictures could presumably be recorded off-air. For now, Eadie would have to make do with her own tapes of the Pompey demo but extra footage would soon be available from other protests elsewhere in the country.

Eadie said there was no need to use Federal Express. She had a broadband link that could carry incoming video.

"What about money?"

"Forget it."

"No charge?"

"Not a penny."

"Copyright?"

"Ignore it. We're at war."

"And you've got someone to sort all this out?"

"Indeed." Eadie shot J-J a look. "I know just the guy."

Now, fifteen hours later, J-J was sieving Eadie's rushes from last night's demo for the best shots. She leaned over his shoulder while he quickly played the highlights: kids bursting out of HMV in the shopping precinct to join the march, two old ladies clapping as the column of protesters swept past, a pit bull pissing on a discarded placard featuring George Bush.

As the images came and went, Eadie realised that J-J had a real talent for cutting to the meat of an event like this. Maybe it was the fact that he was never distracted by the soundtrack. Maybe the media gurus were right when they insisted that TV and film had an overwhelmingly visual logic. Whatever the explanation it didn't matter because Eadie could sense already that footage like this, inter cut with the other material, could play to any audience in the world. This was the true Esperanto of moral outrage, a torrent of visceral images that would relocate the business of war to where it truly belonged. No longer a pain-free crusade peddled to the voters on the back of half-baked intelligence, but real babies, everyone's flesh and blood, blown apart in the name of freedom.

J-J got to the end of the out-takes from the demo. Some of Eadie's passion seemed to have rubbed off on him and he grinned up at her when she gave him a hug. Funny, she thought. Show J-J a real-life tragedy unfolding in front of his eyes, and he doesn't want to know.

Multiply that single death a thousand-fold, and he can't wait to get stuck in.

"Al Jazeera?" she signed.

"Nothing yet." He fingered his watch, then shrugged.

Early afternoon, the McDonald's on the turn-off beside the MZ7 was packed. Faraday spotted Wallace and his handler in the far corner by the window. Wallace had commandeered a four-seat table and was tucking into a treble cheeseburger with a brimming cone of fries.

The handler was a DS, Terry McNaughton, who had served under Faraday for six busy months at Highland Road, a tall, relaxed-looking thirty-year-old with a smile that could open any door. Two years later, he'd swapped the Top Man suits for jeans and a dark blue button-down shirt.

The moment he saw Faraday, he got to his feet and left the table.

Wallace followed, abandoning the burger but hanging on to the fries.

"Let's do it in the car." McNaughton nodded towards the exit doors.

"This is mad."

McNaughton's Golf was parked next to the fence. Faraday got into the back, making space for himself amongst a litter of scuba magazines. A travel brochure caught his eye, a specialist company he'd never heard of.

"Galapagos, boss." McNaughton had twisted himself round in the driver's seat. "Three weeks in May for two and a half grand. Ten days diving guaranteed. Turtle heaven." He paused. "You OK, sir?"

"Me?" Faraday looked at him in surprise.

"Yeah… It's just you look…" He shook his head, embarrassed now. "Forget it." He glanced across at Wallace. "Yer man here's got some news."

Wallace offered Faraday a chip.

"He phoned up this morning, first thing, Mackenzie. Gave me the name of a hotel, the Solent Palace."

"When?"

"Sunday. He wants to buy me lunch. Thinks I'm coming down from London."

"Time?"

"Half twelve in the Vanguard Bar."

"But you're definitely eating as well?"

"That's what he's saying. Apparently there's a two-for-one offer on all month. It's a car very He thinks I'll love it. Real food, mush.

None of yer nouvelle muck." The Pompey accent drew a grin from McNaughton.

Faraday made a note. The Solent Palace was one of the bigger hotels on the se afront a Victorian pile in red brick with sensational views across the Common towards the Isle of Wight. The last time Faraday had been there was a year or so back, a formal dinner for a visiting police chief and his team from Caen. The food had been appalling, though the French, to their credit, hadn't turned a hair.

"The restaurant's at the front on the first floor," Faraday said. "How do we want to play this?"

"That's down to you, your call." Wallace finished the last chip and wiped his fingers on a towel he'd found in the foot well "This car's a doss, Terry. What do you do, kip in it?"

"Only when my luck's in." He was still looking at Faraday. "What are we doing for back-up, sir?"

"There isn't any. Or not much."

"You're serious?" McNaughton was responsible for Wallace's physical safety.

"Yes." Faraday nodded. "My boss is paranoid about security. Doesn't want to risk it."

"Risk what?"

"Compromising the operation. He thinks we're half-blown already and he's probably right."

"Tomorrow, you mean? The meet with Mackenzie?"

"No. The rest of it. Apparently, my lot plotted a hard stop back before Christmas. Should have netted a load of cocaine but they found nothing. That's why he's kept tomorrow so tight."

"Thank fuck for that."

"Exactly. The downside is back-up. I gather he's thinking himself, me, and you."

"In the hotel?"

"Probably not. I'll recce the place tomorrow, but there's no way Mackenzie would have chosen it unless he knew the management, which means there's no way we can install cameras. Mackenzie's plugged in everywhere, as you know." Faraday was drawing a diagram on his notepad. "My guess is a couple of cars across the road, line of sight from the restaurant, say a hundred metres max if we get there early."

"He wants a transmitter?"

"Plus a recorder. Both ends."

"That's no problem. We've got a dinky little Nagra in on appro, recorder transmitter all one unit. Plus a receiver recorder for one of the cars, plus the Olympus for stills, and we've cracked it." He frowned. "Doesn't solve the back-up, though."

"Don't worry." Wallace was watching a pretty young mother steering her infant daughter towards a nearby sports car. "Worst that can happen, he shakes me down. I'm Jack the Lad, never go anywhere without a wire."

"You think he'll buy that?"

"Haven't a clue, but you just keep talking, don't you?" The young mum was bending over the sports car, strapping her daughter into a child seat. "What happens if he changes his mind about the hotel? Rings me with another r/v couple of minutes before the off?"

"You bell us."

"And what if we meet at this place and he carts me off elsewhere?"

"We follow. And you keep talking."

"OK." He shrugged. "Sounds sweet to me."

The mother was climbing into the sports car now, smoothing down her skirt as she shot Wallace a smile. Faraday wanted to know what else Mackenzie had said on the phone.

"He was fine. Just said he wasn't fucking me around."

"What did that mean?"

"He meant it was worth my while to make the trip down. Offered to show me the sights, too, if I was arsed."

"What sights?" McNaughton started to laugh.

"He didn't say." Wallace ignored McNaughton. "As far as I'm concerned, the story's simple. I've got a thousand deals on the go and the last thing I'm up for is half the afternoon poking round the Victory. He knows that. I've told him. Baz, I said, it's a quick bite and you have your say. Then I'm back to town. That's one good reason we'll be staying at the hotel. If he starts to fuck around, I'm out of there."

"It's Baz, is it?"

"Yeah, has been the last couple of calls. Old mates, we are. Same game."

"You mean that?" Faraday at last felt his spirits begin to rise.

"Too right. The bloke's sharp as a tack. You can tell. Funny, too.

He doesn't buy all the tosh about shopping developments in the Gulf for a moment, probably never has. As far as he's concerned, I'm the opposition. And we're not just talking Spit Bank."

"You think he'll come across with an offer?"

"Yes."

"Money?"

"Maybe, though I doubt it. These blokes hate parting with dosh. If there's a better way, he'll find it."

"Threats?"

"No, he'll like to think he's classier than that."

"What then?"

"Dunno." He flashed Faraday a sudden smile. "Stay tuned, eh?"

It was Cathy Lamb's decision to evacuate Dave Pullen to what she called 'a place of safety'. Between them, Winter and Suttle cut through the cable ties, threw Pullen a T-shirt and a pair of filthy jeans, and pushed him towards the bathroom to clean himself up. As soon as two other members of the squad had driven down from Kingston Crescent to babysit the flat in case the Scousers turned up, Winter and Suttle would escort Pullen to Central police station where, Winter explained, the Custody Sergeant had volunteered an empty cell.

The two DCs turned up shortly after two. Winter briefed them in the curtained lounge. Shortly afterwards, as he and Suttle stepped out into the gloom of the upstairs landing with Pullen, Winter heard a yell from one of the DCs. Five seconds in Pullen's bedroom had wrecked his entire afternoon.

"There's bleach in the kitchen cupboard," Winter shouted back. "We might be some time."

Out on the street, it dawned on Pullen that Winter meant it about Central.

"No way," he said, starting to struggle free.

Winter gave him a look, told him it was in his own best interests.

Until the Scousers were off the plot, he should resign himself to a little protective custody. When Pullen refused to get in the car, Winter arrested him.

"Why?"

"Suspicion of kidnap and assault. Bloody do as you're told." He told Suttle to fetch the handcuffs from the glove box then bundled Pullen into the back of the car and locked the doors.

Central police station lies beside the city's magistrates court. Winter found a space in the public car park, turned off the engine, then wound down his window an inch.

"How much of a wash did you have then, Dave?" He was eyeing Pullen in the rear-view mirror. "Only some of our blokes in the station are really particular."

"Fuck off."

A gaggle of university students sauntered past, kicking at a stray can.

Suttle watched them, saying nothing, aware that he hadn't a clue what might happen next. In situations like these, as he was beginning to discover, Winter made up the rules as he went along.

Winter found the release catch on the driver's seat and pushed it back, making himself more comfortable. Pullen yelped as the bottom of the seat caught him on the ankles, then he twisted sideways in the back.

"That fucking hurt."

"Yeah?" Winter reached up, adjusting the mirror until he found Pullen's ravaged face again. "Here's the deal, Dave." He nodded towards the nearby police station. "Either we take you in there, do the paperwork, book you in, sort you out a lawyer, all that crap, or we have a little chat out here, just the three of us."

"I done nothing."

"Wrong, Dave. You done Trudy."

"Who says?"

"Trude does. As you well know."

"How's that, then?"

"Because Bazza would have told you. Not face to face, maybe, but good as. Do I have to spell this out, Dave? Or do we think Bazza's mates came round to your place to talk football?"

Pullen brooded for a moment.

"You got no proof," he said at last.

"Wrong again, Dave. We've got a statement."

"Who from?"

"Young Trudy. Am I right, James?"

Suttle nodded. He was beginning to get the drift.

"Dead right, mate." Suttle glanced over his shoulder at Pullen. "No more freebies from Trude, Dave. You've put her off billiards for life."

"What she say, then?"

"She said she was having a little chat with some Scouse lads down Gunwharf. She said you got the hump and dragged her off. She said you smacked her around a bit in the car, then took a billiard cue to her once there was no way she could do anything about it. She also said you were pissed out of your head, but I think we're starting to take that for granted."

"OK, Dave?" It was Winter again. "Are we getting there now?"

Pullen said nothing. He'd shifted again, trying to get comfortable, and his head was back against the seat. At length, he closed his eyes and mumbled something incomprehensible. Winter waited until the yellow eyes opened again, then gave him a smile.

"Like I said, Dave. We can either put you through a couple of interviews and bang you up for the weekend pending a kidnap charge, or …" He fingered the steering wheel.

"Or what? What's the deal?"

"You tell us one or two things about Bazza."

"Like what?"

"Like why he's so touchy about young Trude."

"No way."

"Really?" Winter kept eye contact in the mirror for a moment or two.

Then he sighed. "Kidnap's a serious offence, Dave. We can put you in front of the magistrates on Monday and I'll give you odds they'll refuse bail. You know the remand wing at Winchester? Bazza's mates practically run the place. I'd give it a couple of days, max."

"Couple of days how?"

"Use your imagination, Dave. You know those big urns they use for boiling water in the canteen? They put sugar in, sticks better when they want to make a point. But then I expect you'd know that already, the time you've done."

Pullen shook his head, not wanting to listen. A dustbin lorry growled past, two pink balloons attached to the back. Finally Pullen stirred.

He appeared to have come to some kind of conclusion.

"What's in it for me, then?"

"We take you up to the QA for a proper check, then we find you a nice hotel for a couple of nights. Stick a bottle of Scotch in the fridge."

"And after that?"

"You go back home. Get the Hoover out. If the Scousers come round at all, they'll do it in the next twenty-four hours."

"You're serious about staking the place out?"

"Fraid so, Dave. Part of our Safer City Initiative. So… tell me about Bazza. Pretend we know nothing."

"Bazza and Trude?"

"That's right."

Pullen nodded, still not quite convinced, then a resigned shake of the head told Winter he was home and dry. Thanks to Cathy Lamb, there was a room already booked in the Travel Inn on the se afront All Pullen had to do now was earn it.

"Trude's Bazza's daughter," he mumbled.

"How do you know?"

"Bazza told me. Years ago."

"So why doesn't Trude know?"

"He's never got round to telling her. Thinks it might get complicated.

He loves her and everything, looks out for her, but he doesn't want any legal hassle. Having a kid of his own, like."

"You mean Esme?"

"Yeah."

"And the missus? Marie? Does she know about Trudy?"

"Haven't a clue."

"And Trude?" It was Suttle this time. "Where's she in all this?"

"Trude's off the planet. She's got a list of dads as long as your arm.

Mother like Mist, you takes your pick. That's why I felt sorry for her."

"Trude? You felt sorry for her? Fuck, I'd hate to be someone you didn't like."

"You don't understand, son."

"You're fucking right, I don't understand. You're an arse hole Pullen.

Maybe it's time you picked on someone your own size. How about me for starters?" Suttle lunged at him, ignoring Winter's restraining hand.

Pullen had retreated to the far corner of the back seat.

"See, Dave?" Winter was laughing. "See the effect you have on people?

My mate here, Jimmy, thinks you cocked it up with Trude. And I'll tell you something else: Bazza does too. Only thing that puzzles me is why Baz ever let you near his precious daughter in the first place. Is he blind or something? Doesn't he know you're a scumbag?"

"We were good mates, me and Baz."

"Yeah, I remember. Same team, wasn't it? Only that was when you could still put one foot in front of the other."

"I was fucking useful."

"I know you were, Dave. I even watched you a couple of Sundays when I'd got nothing better to do. You were in a different class. Play your cards right, knock the charlie and all that booze on the head, and you could have turned pro. But it didn't happen, did it, Dave? And you know what that makes you? One sad bastard. You're right, couple of years ago Bazza thought the world of you. Now he's thrown you to the dogs."

"Yeah." Suttle nodded. "And about fucking time too."

Pullen didn't want to know. He was squirming around in the back, trying to ease the bite of the handcuffs. Winter watched him for a moment or two, not bothering to hide his disgust. Then he readjusted his seat and began to toy with the car keys.

"One last question, Dave. What's with Bazza and Valentine?"

"They're mates."

"I know that. I meant with Trudy. Did Bazza know Trude was living with Valentine?"

"Of course he did."

"And he thought Valentine was shagging her?"

"No way."

"No way} How does that work?"

Pullen's eyes found Winter's in the mirror, the look of a man who knows he's gone too far but can't do much about it.

"He warned him off," he said at last. "Told him he'd break his legs if he laid a finger on her."

"That personal?"

"Yeah." Pullen closed his eyes again. "You know fucking Bazza."

Willard sat at his desk in the Major Crimes suite, waiting for Prebble to pick up his extension. According to Joyce, who'd answered Willard's call to Tumbril HQ, the young accountant was busy putting another thousand documents through the photocopier. She'd given him a shout and told him the chief was on the line, top priority. He responded well to pressure, she said, and would doubtless be back in seconds.

Willard, who'd taken a while to tune in to Joyce's sense of humour, scribbled himself a note about an extension to Prebble's contract. Once they had Mackenzie in the bag, the accountant would be working flat out preparing the paperwork for the CPS file. Willard also foresaw endless conferences with the Assset Recovery Agency, the new government body charged with stripping major criminals of their ill-gotten gains. This would be Tumbril's real harvest, the seizure of millions of pounds' worth of property, business holdings, cars and sundry other goodies which Mackenzie had accumulated over the last decade. Prebble had spent the best part of a year sorting out the artful chaos Mackenzie had created around himself, and it would be Willard's pleasure to watch dusk fall on the city's biggest criminal. Up like a rocket, he thought.

Down like a stick.

"Apologies, Mr. Willard." It was Prebble. "Ran out of toner."

"How's it going?"

"Fine."

Willard had already rung this morning, telling Prebble that he'd need a headline summary of Mackenzie's major investments by the middle of next week. Now, he advanced the deadline.

"Monday morning," he said. "On my desk."

Prebble's silence suggested this might be a problem. When he asked why, the accountant had a question of his own.

"What are you going to use this stuff for?" he enquired. "Only it might help me to know."

"Why?"

"Because there's ways I can dress the thing up."

"I don't want it dressed up. I just want a simple breakdown what the guy's worth, where it comes from, what he's into."

"Like a wiring diagram?"

"Yeah." Willard liked that idea. "Exactly."

"You're going to use it for some kind of presentation?"

"It doesn't matter what I'm going to use it for. It just has to be clear. If we can follow the links, see how it all ties up, so much the better. You know what I mean? We discussed it this morning."

"Of course, sir."

"Monday morning," Willard repeated. "OK?"

He put the phone down and sat back in his chair for a moment. Prebble had been right to talk about a presentation. If Sunday furnished the appropriate evidence ideally some kind of drugs-related inducement then Willard would be using the recordings and Prebble's asset analysis to lock in his own boss for the next stages of the operation.

To secure a result when Tumbril finally got to court, Mackenzie had to be seen to be behaving as a major drug dealer. Given a fair wind, that evidence might come from Sunday. Alternatively, Mackenzie might insist on a subsequent meeting for the physical exchange of drugs or money.

Either way, the tapes, photos, and first-person testimony from Wallace would be all the more persuasive with the backing of Prebble's impressive research. The accountant was mapping every corner of Mackenzie's empire, vital reconnaissance if the asset recovery boys were to conduct a slash-and-burn raid of their own.

Willard pushed at the desk with his foot, letting the bulk of his body slowly revolve the chair. The last couple of months he'd put on a pound or two that he regretted, but he'd begun to invest in made-to-measure suits, cleverly cut, and knew that the extra weight remained a secret between him and his bathroom mirror.

He steepled his fingers and gazed out at the rain. Beyond next week, lay the press briefings and the headlines, those glorious moments when Tumbril could at last break surface and give a decent account of itself. Already, Willard was mentally preparing a briefing for the headquarters media unit, an outline account of the violence and intimidation that had smoothed Mackenzie's path to a fortune. This, he'd insist, was the reality that lay beneath the glitzy cafe-bars and the fuck-you lifestyle. The guys on the media unit would shape it into a press release, and Willard smiled at the thought of the subsequent off-the-record conversations he himself would be having with favoured local hacks. Then would be the time to gently muse about bent solicitors and corrupt accountants, about the raft of middle-class expertise on which Mackenzie and his tribe had floated to glory. These people knew who they were, he'd say, and they too should start thinking hard about explaining themselves in front of a judge and jury. Time to make them sweat, he thought. Time to make the bastards understand that not everyone was for sale.

He revolved full circle on the chair and found himself looking at the phone again. Checking his watch, he dialled a number from memory. This time in the afternoon, she was normally up in the living quarters on the fort, sorting out the day's ration of paperwork. Faraday had been right. There were wrinkles here that needed straightening out.

The phone answered on the second ring.

"Gisela?"

Eadie spent the afternoon at the Ambrym offices, sorting out the rushes on her drug project. With J-J already hard at work on the PC, she decamped next door to a small, bare room with a card table, a folding director's chair, and a view of the tiny backyard they used for parking. J-J had brought in a sleeping bag in anticipation of working through the night, and she unzipped it with his blessing and hung it over the window to mask the light before setting up her laptop and starting work.

She'd already been through the interview with Daniel Kelly, selecting the pieces she knew played best, and now she did the same with this morning's interview at the Marriott Hotel, filleting the tape for the moments when Daniel's father met the harder questions head on. The Adobe Premiere editing software supplied on-screen bins into which she could tuck the choicer morsels, and as the afternoon wore on she realised that even in rough-cut form way over length the impact of the video was going to be enormous.

After a break for coffee and a doughnut from the Cafe Parisien down the road, she steeled herself for a look at the footage from the mortuary.

Already this felt like history something she'd done weeks ago and she marvelled at how dispassionate and professional she seemed to have remained. From time to time she could hear her own voice on the soundtrack asking the pathologist or her assistant exactly what was going to happen next, and there was no trace of the bile she'd tasted in her own throat.

Turning away from the laptop as the mortuary assistant began to pack the inside of Daniel's skull with paper tissues, she sensed again that she was putting together something unique. The interviews were extraordinarily powerful. Add footage like this plus shots of Daniel shooting up, and she could already write the headlines.

Excited now, she dug in her bag for her mobile. Her ex-husband Doug had recently been nice enough to enquire how the project was going. Not only had he leased her these offices but he'd negotiated by far the largest of the private donations which had enabled her to seek match-funding. She'd still no idea where the 7000 had come from but she was deeply grateful. The least she owed Doug was a call.

While she dialled his number, she tried to calculate how quickly she could come up with a rough cut. She could make a decent start tonight.

Tomorrow, she was committed to shooting more demo footage in London. A mass protest had been widely advertised and the Guardian was anticipating at least 100,000 on the streets. With luck, though, she could be back by early evening.

Doug answered the moment the call rang through. It seemed he was on a friend's yacht. The wind was crap and it was starting to rain. Eadie got to her feet and peeked out through the window. Doug was right. Big fat drops were darkening the flagstones below.

"Listen," she said. "What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?" "Why?"

"I'll have something to show you." She grinned in anticipation. "Knock your socks off."

It was nearly five by the time Faraday got to Whale Island. To his surprise, he found Prebble still at his desk. As far as he could gather, the accountant never left later than four. Rush-hour trains back to London were a nightmare.

"Hi." Prebble didn't look up from his laptop. "Maybe you should have a look at this."

"What is it?"

"Little present for Mr. W. He wants the easy-read version for Monday."

"Version of what?"

"Here."

Prebble sat back for a moment, gesturing at the screen. A small mountain of documents covered the rest of the desk, some of them decorated with coffee stains. Conveyancing forms. Property leases.

Trustee deeds. Invoices from motor auctions. Photocopied financial information mainly stock market prices torn from newspapers, certain stocks highlighted in yellow.

Faraday turned his attention to the screen. Under "European Properties', Mackenzie evidently owned or had an interest in a farmhouse in Northern Cyprus, an apartment block in Marbella, a vineyard in the Lot valley, and miscellaneous premises in Gibraltar.

"This is for when?"

"Monday."

"Ah…" Faraday permitted himself a smile.

Prebble began to scroll down but an incoming call took Faraday away.

Apologising for the interruption, he stepped across the office towards the open door that led to Joyce's precious archive.

"Gotcha." It was Eadie.

"Good to hear you."

"You, too. Listen. What time are you back tonight? Only ' "I wasn't coming back. Not early."

"No?"

"No. I thought we might go to the movies."

"The movies? Is this Joe Faraday I'm hearing?"

"There's an Afghani film on. A woman director and subtitles. Thought it might appeal. Then maybe something to eat afterwards."

"Joe, that's sweet

"But you can't make it?"

"Afraid not. Listen, there's a guy coming round to the flat to sort the boiler. I fixed for seven. Another cold bath and I'll fucking die."

"Where's J-J?"

"Next door. Working his arse off."

Wearily, Faraday agreed that he'd try and deal with the engineer.

Across the office, in some haste, Prebble was packing up. By the time he'd reached for his coat and shouldered the laptop, Eadie had gone.

Faraday watched Prebble heading for the door, wondering vaguely what other bits of Europe Mackenzie had bought.

The silence was broken by a stir of movement from the archive. It was Joyce.

"Couldn't help overhearing." She grinned at him. "Me? I just love all that Afghani feminist shit."