Cut to Black

Chapter eighteen

SATURDAY, 22 MARCH 2003, 05.15

The early-morning train to London was full of Pompey fans. They drifted from carriage to carriage, toting bacon baps and cans of Stella, still sober. From time to time, buried in her copy of the Guardian, Eadie caught the name "Preston North End'. Couple more points, acccording to a fat boy in a Burberry coat, and it's ours for the fucking taking.

"What's ours for the fucking taking?" Eadie enquired of the elderly woman sitting beside her.

"The football, dear," the woman whispered. "Even my Len's getting excited."

Minutes later, for the second time, Eadie tried to phone Faraday. Last night, a little to her surprise, he hadn't returned to the flat, but on reflection that wasn't so unusual. Saturday mornings, he often left early for a birding expedition and slept at the Bargemaster's House, not wanting to disturb her.

Faraday's mobile still wasn't taking calls. On the off chance, she tried the landline at the Bargemaster's House just in case he'd opted for a lie-in. The last couple of days she'd noticed a tension in him, a tightness that conversation simply seemed to compound. She'd been meaning to ask him about it, to make the kind of time she sensed he needed, but events as ever had ganged up against her.

There was no answer from the Bargemaster's House and Eadie glanced at her watch as the train slowed for Woking station. She'd been right first time. By now, Joe had probably been on the road for hours, with his waxed cotton jacket, packets of dried soup, and Thermos full of hot water. She'd never met anyone so organised, so single-minded, so self-sufficient. Pass on a rumour of something exotic, some bird he hadn't seen for a year or two, and he'd be gone all day. Sorted, she thought, with a tiny stab of relief.

Faraday sat in front of his first-floor study window, his binoculars abandoned, the pad on which he tallied each morning's birds untouched.

Way out on the harbour, high tide, a raft of something grey was floating gently south. They were probably brent geese, he thought, but he couldn't be bothered to check. That ceaseless urge to seek and find, to classify and record, to keep his finger on the pulse of life beyond this window, had left him. His curiosity had gone. Even the ringing of the phone downstairs had failed to rouse him.

He gazed numbly at the view and wondered about going back to bed.

Unable to sleep, he'd been sitting by the window since before dawn.

Last night, against his better judgement, he'd allowed Joyce to invite him in when he'd dropped her off at home. She lived in a featureless modern semi on an estate to the east of Southampton, every trace of her errant husband carefully erased.

She'd slipped a Peggy Lee album into the CD player and then bustled through to the kitchen to brew coffee, leaving Faraday in the tiny box-like lounge-diner surrounded by little colonies of Beanie Babies.

How anyone could live with this shade of fuschia was beyond him and his heart had sunk when she'd thundered up the stairs to the bedroom.

Minutes later, in a turquoise dressing gown, she was back down again, raiding her ex-husband's store of duty-free booze. Cheerfully shameless, she offered him a choice of five liqueurs to go with the coffee and said it might be best to put his Mondeo on the hard standing in front of the garage.

Faraday said no to everything, swallowed the coffee, and headed for the door. On the front step, not the least upset, she gave him a big hug and told him to get a good night's sleep. He'd smiled at her and said he'd do his best. He drove up the road to turn round, and as he passed the house again he could see her through the net curtains in the lounge, a huge swirl of turquoise, dancing alone to the music.

Now, he wandered downstairs and put the kettle on, forcing himself to plan the day. If he had the energy, he'd put a coat on and walk the three miles to the bird reserve at Farlington Marshes. Contributors to the Birdline website had been talking of short-eared owls and he knew the sight of one of those daylight hunters might cheer him up. Back by mid morning, he'd be in good time to drive down to the Solent Palace Hotel. Maybe he'd treat himself to lunch, find out if the food had improved, pretend he was Graham Wallace, check out the sight lines from the restaurant and the exits to the car park, and all the other stuff that setting up a meet like this involved. The thought filled him with gloom, not because he'd lost faith in the operation but because the very prospect of having to make any kind of decision seemed hopelessly daunting.

The kettle began to boil and he stepped across to switch it off. The teapot lay on the nearby tray. J-J had been the last to use it and a couple of ancient tea bags were still visible inside. Faraday froze for a moment, staring down in bewilderment. His brain appeared to have locked solid. Try as he might, he couldn't work out what to do next.

Paul Winter was the first customer of the morning at Pompey Blau. He parked his precious Subaru and sauntered across the road towards the forecourt. A breakfast at a cafe round the corner had improved an already promising day and the sight of a line of gleaming BMWs lifted his spirits still further. He hadn't felt so cheerful for years.

A small hut at the back of the forecourt housed the sales operation.

This, thought Winter, was Pompey at its best. Half a million quid's worth of German engineering on display and some dosser's garden shed to tidy up the paperwork.

A youth in a baseball cap and a Saints football top lounged behind the desk. A Saturday copy of the Sun was open at the football page.

"Brave lad." Winter nodded at the shirt, "You got a death wish or something?"

Without saying a word, the youth twisted round in the chair. Scrolled across the back of the shirt, Scummers Suck.

"Nice one. Mike Valentine around?"

"No."

"Any idea where I can find him?"

"No, mush."

"Seen him at all recently, have you?"

The youth shook his head. His eyes hadn't left the paper. Winter planted himself in front of the desk, then bent low, his mouth an inch from the youth's ear.

"What if I want to buy one of those nice cars?" he whispered.

The youth at last lifted his head.

"You can't."

"Can't? How does that work? I thought this was a garage?"

"They're all sold."

"All of them? Why doesn't it say so?"

"Run out of stickies, mate. And my writing's crap." He'd gone back to the paper. "Valentine's probably at Waterlooville. Why don't you try there?"

Waterlooville was fifteen minutes up the motorway. Once a quiet country town, it had recently sprawled outwards in a rash of trading estates and executive housing developments that threatened to engulf the surrounding countryside.

Mike Valentine Autos occupied a corner site on the trading estate to the west of the town centre. Winter left the Subaru at the kerb side and strolled across to the big, glass-fronted offices beside the showroom. A crescent of blue sofa was littered with motoring magazines and a water cooler bubbled on a stand in the corner. A banner hung on the wall behind the empty reception desk. More For Less, it read.

Driving Is Believing.

Winter lingered beside the desk for a moment or two. Twenty-five years in the job had given him a talent for reading documents upside down, but he had to double-check before he believed the figure on the sales invoice. A two-year-old Beemer for 9500? Couldn't be done.

There were dozens more invoices underneath. He stepped round the desk and began to flick through them. A 2002-reg series 5 for 14,950. A Mercedes S for 11,750. No wonder everyone he knew in the job was beating a path to Mike Valentine's door. This wasn't a sales operation, it was a charity.

"Can I help you?"

A woman had appeared from a room at the back. She was young, tall and blonde with a spray-on top and low-slung jeans to showcase her belly piercing. Winter offered a cheerful grin. If her name wasn't Sharon, it should have been.

"Mike Valentine?"

"Not here today." She was looking down at the invoices. "You from the VAT or something?"

"Just curious. Friend told me this was the place to come for a bargain."

"You wanna carV She seemed astonished.

"That's right. Prices like these, who wouldn't?"

"Yeah?" She frowned, then started picking at a nail. "You'll have to talk to Mike, then. There's no one else now."

"Why's that then?"

"Dunno." She shrugged. "You'll have to ask him."

"Fine. Love to. Where is he?"

"Out."

"Out where?"

"London."

"What about the cars next door?"

"Most of them are gone, sold. Bloke came in this morning and cancelled on the blue series 3 convertible. You can have a look at that, if you want."

"Through there?" Winter nodded across at the door that led into the showroom. "You got a service history or anything?"

"Try the workshop at the back. There's a bloke called Barry." She sank into the chair behind the desk and dug around in the drawer for a nail file. The conversation was evidently over.

Winter headed for the showroom. Amongst half a dozen cars was the blue convertible. Winter made a cursory inspection, gave one of the front wheels a kick, noticed the distinctive Play Up Pompey sticker on the back, then headed out into the sunshine again.

The workshop, invisible from the road, was a breeze-block construction with folding metal doors. Two CCTV cameras looked down on the apron of oil-stained tarmac at the front and a prominent sign threatened illegal parkers with clamping. One of the two doors was open, and Winter stepped into the gloom, peering round.

The workshop was bigger than he'd expected. A couple of inspection pits occupied one side and a powered chain hoist hung from one of the overhead girders. Like every other detective in the area, Winter had picked up the gossip after Valentine had survived a carefully plotted road stop on the A3 shortly before Christmas. Judging by the resources they'd thrown at the job surveillance, traffic cars, spotter plane — you'd have expected something substantial in the way of a result, yet even the wreckers in Scenes of Crime had failed to find even a trace of anything naughty.

The fact that Valentine was tied in with Bazza Mackenzie was common knowledge, but Christmas was the first time that Winter had given the partnership serious thought. Maybe the guys who'd set up the intercept were right, he thought. Maybe Valentine's lads really did run shit loads of cocaine down from London. If so, then a workshop like this would be exactly the kind of unloading facility they'd need.

Except for a tidy-looking BMW X5, the garage was empty. Winter sauntered across and took a look. Someone had been working on the vehicle only recently because there was dirty oil in a plastic bowl between the front wheels. The tyres were new, too, tiny whiskers of rubber curling up from the tread. Curious, Winter peered inside. The BMW's documentation lay pouched in a plastic wallet on the dashboard.

On the passenger seat, was a new-looking Michelin European road map.

Winter returned to the front of the vehicle, making a mental note of the registration, then he noticed the tiny black triangles of black tape patched carefully onto the headlights. They, too, looked new.

Preparations for a trip abroad, he thought.

He heard a door bang, then footsteps. Turning round, Winter found himself looking at a small, thin figure in stained green overalls. The face, for a second, looked familiar: receding hair, bony skull, small deeply recessed eyes. He'd seen this man recently, maybe in one of the Custody Suite photos that decorated the cork board in the CID squad office at Highland Road.

"What's this, then?" The man was wiping his hands on a tangle of oily rag. A good night's sleep would do wonders for his complexion.

Winter explained about the blue convertible, wanted more details. The mechanic told him the car was a dog.

"Got shunted up the arse in a motorway pile-up. Twisted chassis. Fuck all we can do about it."

"Shame." Winter nodded back towards the showroom. "What about the rest of them?"

"Couple of decent motors. The series 7 is a steal. That kind of price, you could clean up if you had the patience. Private sale after, ad in the paper, fifteen grand easy."

"So what are you asking?"

"Eleven three. And it's gone, in case you're wondering."

Winter nodded, plunging his hands in his pockets. He could detect bitterness in seconds and this man had plenty.

"How come everything goes so fast?" he enquired.

"Always has done. Pile 'em high, sell 'em for fuck all. Shift enough motors, do it quick, and no one has time to spot how it's done. Same with them magicians, ain't it?" He made a shuffling motion with his hands, invisible cards in some pavement scam, then cleared his throat and turned his head to spit into the gloom.

"No motors left, then? Except the bent Beemer?"

"That's right, mate, all gone."

"So when should I come back?"

"Wouldn't bother if I were you. He's selling up."

"Who's selling up?"

"My boss. Selling up and shipping out. Couple of weeks, this place'll be doing bathrooms. Great, if you fancy selling fucking khazis for the rest of your life."

The Solent Palace Hotel occupied a prime site on the se afront Look one way, and the long line of Ladies Mile tracked across the Common towards Southsea Castle. Look the other, and the sweep of the promenade took the eye west towards the busy mouth of Portsmouth Harbour. From the upper floors, on a clear day, you could see fifteen miles across the Isle of Wight to the low, blue hump of Tennyson Down.

Faraday, who'd once spent half a morning in a top-floor bedroom trying to get to the bottom of an alleged rape, remembered being transfixed by the view. Tennyson Down was the landscape of his youth, miles and miles of close-cropped turf that still spoke to him across the years.

Just now, he could think of nothing sweeter than to be back there, perched on the cliff top, listening to a skylark belting its head off, invisible against the sun.

The hotel restaurant on the first floor was a long, sunny room with tall picture windows over-curtained in heavy brocade. At a couple of minutes before noon, it was virtually empty. An elderly couple at a nearby table were puzzling over the Daily Telegraph crossword. In a far corner, a waiter was polishing glasses.

Faraday found himself a table by the window. He could feel the sun through the glass and he swapped chairs so the thin warmth bathed his face. He closed his eyes a moment, forcing himself to relax. There was something about the feel of this place that reminded him of a convalescent home. Its very emptiness should have been peopled with casualties, he thought, and amongst those broken bodies he was tempted to number himself. He felt exhausted, physically knocked-about, a front-line survivor evacuated from some far-flung war, and when he opened his eyes again he half expected a nurse to turn up with a wheelchair, ready to give him a breath or two of fresh air.

"What can I get you, sir?" It was the waiter.

Faraday looked at him, vaguely surprised.

"Lunch?"

"The menu's there, sir. I'll be back in two ticks."

Faraday studied the menu, presented again with the impossibility of making any kind of choice. Lightly poached salmon on a bed of watercress? Breast of chicken, Italian-style? He hadn't a clue.

He put the menu to one side and gazed out of the window. Tomorrow's business, he'd decided, could pretty much look after itself. If Willard was really determined to keep this latest episode in the Tumbril story so tight even Brian Imber didn't know then there was precious little that Faraday could make in the way of prior arrangements. He'd already acquired RIPA authority for the operation, which would protect the covertly gathered evidence in court. Tomorrow, God willing, Wallace and Mackenzie would turn up, and Mackenzie would make a choice of table. Faraday and Willard, meanwhile, would be parked across the road, eagerly tuned in to whatever followed. Faraday got to his feet and took a precautionary peek round the curtain, confirming that even now, on a busy Saturday, there were still parking spaces across the road. Tomorrow, McNaughton, Wallace's handler, would grab another of them, and the rest was down to the miracle of radio waves.

Faraday resumed his seat, wondering just how much political capital Willard had invested in tomorrow's outcome. The other night, in hospital, Nick Hayder had described the Det-Supt as a key ally, vital protection against marauding predators from higher up the force food chain. Faraday knew this was true, and was grateful for the knowledge that Willard's fierce loyalty would be unwavering if it came to resisting boarders. Nonetheless, Faraday had been less than comfortable to find himself in the crossfire at Secretan's council of war, and the more he thought about the drugs issue, the less certain he became of his own position.

Did Harry Wayte have a point when he banged the table about wholesale legalisation? Was Eadie Sykes right to break every rule in the book in the battle for hearts and minds? Would J-J his own son, for God's sake become an unwitting victim in the ongoing war? To each of these questions, Faraday had no answer, and in policing terms he knew that made him next to useless.

The likes of Willard and Brian Imber didn't have a moment's self-doubt when it came to Tumbril. Bazza Mackenzie had grown fat and all too visible, thanks to his dealings in the cocaine trade, and in their view he'd deserve everything that a judge and jury, convinced by hard-won evidence, could throw at him. The fact that other men, almost certainly outsiders, would fill his boots within weeks was irrelevant.

Justice, he could hear Willard saying, was best served by taking on the bad guys and putting them away.

So far, so good. But what of the Brixton Yardies queuing up at Pompey's door, just itching for a crack at the market? What of the Scouse lunatics, with their Stanley knives and their cut-price wraps?

And what, rather closer to home, of the envy and resentments that rumours of a covert operation like Tumbril were inevitably stirring up amongst other coppers? Brian Imber had already warned him about the old-stagers, seasoned detectives like Harry Wayte. But how would Imber himself feel once he realised that he too had been kept in the dark about tomorrow's little adventure?

"Have you made a choice, sir?" The waiter had returned, pad in hand.

"Yes." Faraday was still gazing out at the sunshine. "I think I'll have a large Scotch."

A call to the PNC clerk at Kingston Crescent had given Winter all the details he needed on the BMW in Valentine's workshop, Unsurprisingly, DVLA at Swansea was giving Valentine himself as the vehicle's owner, a fact that might indicate a temporary transfer of ownership ahead of commercial sale. On the other hand, the Beemer had been registered in Valentine's name for more than a year, which suggested to Winter that it might be his personal set of wheels.

A second call, this time to the force control room, supplied phone numbers and addresses for three Valentines in the Waterlooville area.

Only one of them was a Mr. M. Valentine, and on the strength of this information Winter drove round for a look. Number 4 Avondale Gardens turned out to be an executive-style four-bed roomed house in a select crescent on the nicer side of town. There was a For Sale notice in the front garden and no sign of life inside.

Winter phoned Valentine's number to be on the safe side, then called the estate agency. He was down from London with an hour or two to spare. He was desperate for a cash buy and rather liked the look of number four. Any chance of a quick tour? The woman at the other end said she was up to her eyes but thought one of the other sales staff might be able to help. Minutes later, she rang back. Interest in the property, she warned him, was keen, but there was still room for what she termed 'a competitive bid'.

Bored with coverage of the big London anti-war demo, Winter turned off the car radio and gazed at the house. If Valentine was indeed doing a runner, then he certainly wasn't covering his tracks. Winding up his garage business and putting his home on the market was a public declaration that he was moving on, and it was inconceivable that Bazza Mackenzie didn't know. In Winter's view, it was odds-on that Misty Gallagher and probably Trudy were going with him, and it was at this point that the likely passage of events was trickier to call.

Misty, last night, had been adamant that Bazza had never caught a whisper of her on off liaison with Valentine. Only too conscious of the likely consequences of him finding out, she and Mike been ultra-careful to shield the relationship from prying eyes. They were all friends, obviously; Valentine, Bazza and Misty were often in company together. But never, she insisted, had Baz ever suspected that she and Valentine sometimes met to get it on, or even disappeared together for extended weekends in a variety of secluded West Country hotels. As far as Bazza was concerned, Posh Mike, as he called Valentine, was simply a mate and a business partner.

And what of Trudy? Once again, Misty had shaken her head. Baz had long ago made up his mind that Trudy was his. Misty had never bothered to put him right in this belief largely because it guaranteed her a generous monthly allowance and supposition on Bazza's part had become fact. The moment he discovered that Trudy belonged to someone else, not just someone else but posh fucking Mike Valentine, then the shit would truly hit the fan.

Was this why they were all getting out? To escape the terrifying prospect of Bazza's wrath?

The woman from the estate agency drove a white Toyota. At the newly painted front door, hunting for the key, she mentioned the price again.

Nothing was set in stone. A couple of thousand over the odds, and she was sure the vendors would snap an offer up.

"You've got the name of the owner?"

"Valentine, I think." The woman flicked quickly through the file.

'yes-A Mr. Michael Valentine."

Winter followed her into the property. The wooden parquet flooring was beginning to fade from the sunshine and Winter caught the lingering scent of cigars. The door to the lounge was open, sunshine jigsawed on the carpet, and Winter found himself looking at a big room furnished by someone with a bit of taste. While the agent enthused about the recently upgraded central heating system and state of the art intruder alarms, Winter toured the room, inspecting a set of fine watercolours that looked original. One of the things about Valentine that had always attracted Misty was the man's education. He'd been a St.

Joseph's boy, she'd said, briefly a classmate of Bazza's until Baz got expelled. He spoke French. He knew his way round a decent menu. He went to the theatre. He even read books.

The agent, obviously pressed for time, was already leading the way into the kitchen, but Winter lingered beside a glass-fronted cabinet that held a much-thumbed collection of novels. Winter's taste didn't run much beyond Tom Clancy and Clive Cussler but the names on these shelves impressed him. A complete set of D.H. Lawrence. A bound edition of Middlemarch. A long line of Graham Greene novels. Misty was right.

After the gale-force excitements of Bazza Mackenzie, an evening with Mike Valentine would have been an altogether gentler experience.

Winter was examining a roll-top writing bureau in the corner when he heard the trill of a mobile. The agent stuck her head round the kitchen door and apologised for having take the call. Winter shot her a smile, said it was no problem, and waited until she was back inside the kitchen before opening the bureau. To his disappointment, it had already been cleared. He tried the drawers beneath. They were all empty. About to explore the dining room next door, he remembered the phone in the hall. It was a stylish unit he'd spotted recently in a catalogue. It contained an answering machine.

Stepping back into the hall, he lifted the phone and keyed the message button. There were three messages waiting. The first was Misty. She was running late. She'd be at Waterloo for twelve o'clock, usual place. If he was serious about staying over in London, it was no problem from her point of view as long as they could go to the Lanesborough again. The next caller, a man, left a name and a number and rang off.

Winter glanced up. The agent was still on her mobile he could hear her laughing. He bent to the phone again, waiting for the last of the messages. A woman this time, calling from a travel agency. Mr.

Valentine's tickets for the ferry crossing had come through. She'd managed to get him a nice outside cabin with full en suite, four bunks as requested. He could pick up the tickets himself or she could have them sent round. Mr. Valentine was to remember to be at the ferry port half an hour before embarkation. The phone went dead, leaving Winter gazing at yet another water colour Faraday had decided to level with Willard. The Det-Supt, after all, deserved the truth. There were reputations on the line here, and a ton of money, and if Faraday felt he couldn't deliver then it was only fair to say so.

Willard lived in Old Portsmouth. Faraday had never been to the house before but Willard had described it on a number of occasions, a converted bakery in Warblington Street, and Faraday knew exactly where it was. Glad of the smack of fresh air, he set out from the hotel and made his way towards Old Portsmouth. For a man who rarely drank at lunchtime, he was pleasantly surprised at how mellow the third Scotch had made him feel. For the first time in days, he risked a smile.

The route to Willard's house passed the Anglican cathedral. Across the road from the cathedral was a pub, the Dolphin, that Faraday had always rather liked. Inside, it had a timbered, low-ceilinged, shadowy feel, unspoiled by piped music or this month's makeover. Years ago, he'd asked the publican about the history of the place, how far back it went, and the assurance that Nelson might have paused here before embarking to hunt for the French came as no surprise. In the clamour that passed for today's society, the Dolphin somehow represented peace.

The pub was empty. Faraday had bought a copy of the Guardian from the news agent on the corner, and now he found himself a chair beside the fire. The first pint, London Pride, slipped down beautifully. Faraday thumbed through the news section of the paper, trying to piece together the chaos of the allied advance into Iraq. Had Umm Qasr surrendered or not? Would Basra be the next plum on Saddam's tree? After the second pint, Faraday didn't care. Folding the newspaper, he made his way back onto the street, Crossing the road, resuming his journey, he became aware of the unaccompanied chant of a choir. It was coming from the cathedral, a sound like none other he'd ever heard. Even here, out in the sunshine, it had a bare, haunting quality that spoke of something in definably precious. The door on the western corner of the cathedral was open. He stepped inside, glad at once that he'd done so. On the dais beneath the organ loft, a dozen or so men were involved in some kind of rehearsal. The choirmaster stood before them, a portly man in a red check shirt. He conducted with one hand, fluid circular gestures, beautifully expressive, and the music rose and fell as he did so.

Faraday slipped into a chair at the back of the nave, engulfed by the music. He'd always loved this cathedral. Domestic in scale, it had never set out to intimidate or impress. On the contrary, with its honeyed stone and softly lit recesses, it offered the most intimate of welcomes.

Faraday let his head sink back against the ribbed stone of the nearby pillar. The chant, it seemed to him, had slowed. Closing his eyes, he began to drift away, feeling the sudden warmth of the sun on his face, catching a glimpse of something big, a lammergeier perhaps, soaring on a thermal high in the Pyrenees. The flight of the bird, circling and circling, perfectly matched the music. Away beyond the frieze of peaks, the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon. Later, he thought, he'd retrace his steps, clamber down towards the valley, find a bodega in the village below, treat himself to chorizo sausage and Catalan bean stew and a decent bottle of Rioja. He'd maybe risk his broken Spanish on a local or two, try and share his day in the mountains, then in the warm darkness he'd beat a path to bed.

His mouth dry from the alcohol, he began to snore. After a while, the chanting stopped. Then, from deep sleep, Faraday found himself shaken awake. A figure in a black cassock was standing over him. It was a face he recognised, a face from years back. He reached up, touched the man's hand, grateful for this small miracle.

"Nigel?" he queried.

The march had been a disappointment. After the unforgettable turnout in February, one and a half million people bringing central London to a halt, Eadie had known at once that this march was infinitely smaller.

The faces had changed, as well. Gone were the ranks of middle England, the civil servants in from Haslemere, the young mums up from the shires. Instead, Eadie found herself taping placards from an organisation called Sex Workers of the World Unite. She knew that bizarre lobby groups like these would be a gift to waverers tempted to close ranks behind the troops in the front line. Weep with the widows of Iraq might touch a nerve or two, but the public mood was undeniably changing.

As a speaker from the Socialist Workers' Party seized the microphone on the platform in front of the crowd, Eadie hunted one last time for images that would give J-J the ammunition he needed. A young black vicar with a child on his shoulders. Two Muslim women, their eyes letter-boxed in black. Distant spectators hanging over a balcony on a hotel overlooking Park Lane. Cold and hungry after the sunshine of the early afternoon, Eadie finally lodged the camera in her day sack and got out her mobile. Three calls to Joe had so far failed to raise a response. She tried again. Nothing.