Cut to Black

Chapter twenty-four

MONDAY, 24 MARCH 2003, 19.45

Faraday was late getting to the Sally Port Hotel. He stepped into the lobby, shedding his coat, already aware of the warm buzz of conversation from the nearby bar. Clerics were everywhere, robed in black. At the end of the corridor, Faraday found a small function room. A youth in a scarlet waistcoat was circulating with a tray of canapes and a waitress Faraday seemed to recognise was edging through the press of bodies, topping up wine glasses. The entire cathedral had emptied, Faraday thought, and decamped across the road.

"How are you?"

Faraday turned to find himself face to face with Nigel Phillimore.

"I'm fine."

"Better?"

"Yes." Faraday felt slightly embarrassed. "Thank you."

"Good." Phillimore took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Come and meet our guests."

For the next half-hour, Faraday did his best to disguise his ignorance about plainchant. Politeness urged him to compliment these men on their performance last night, but as soon as he could he shifted the conversation onto safer ground. He wanted to know about Tallinn, about Estonia, about the kind of life you might lead up there beside the Baltic, about the local bird life He was keen, as well, to sound them out about Portsmouth what they made of the city, what they'd tell their friends when they returned home and as the second glass of Cotes du Rhone settled peaceably on the excellent beef sandwiches, he realised he was enjoying himself.

Their music had been austere, almost chilling, but the Estonians had a warmth and curiosity that created an instant rapport. They liked Portsmouth. One of them even called it Pompey, the way you might refer to a favourite child. The place had spirit, he said, and lots of mischief. Plenty had happened here. You could feel it in the narrow streets and alleys around Old Portsmouth, in the sepia photos on the walls of the cafe down the road. He'd bought a couple of books and one day he'd definitely come back for a proper look. He had some Russian friends in St. Petersburg and he knew they'd like it too. All Russians, he said, were pirates at heart and they'd definitely feel at home in Pompey.

The thought amused Faraday, and when another of the Estonians enquired about his job, he saw no point in keeping it a secret.

"Cop?" said one, rolling his eyes.

"Detective?" said another.

Faraday nodded, fending them off when they pressed him for war stories, but their enthusiasm loosened his tongue further still and he was happy to leave his card when the time came for him to leave.

"Give me a ring if you ever come back." He shook the circle of outstretched hands. "Be a pleasure to show you around."

Back in the lobby, he searched for his coat. There was no one behind reception but he caught sight of the waitress with the canapes coming towards him with an empty tray. Her face again. He knew he'd seen it before.

She led him down to the cloakroom, pushing the door open and stepping back to let him retrieve his coat. Room 6, he thought. The afternoon he'd first met Wallace and rung down for room service.

Struggling into his coat, Faraday watched the woman disappearing towards the kitchen. Then, struck by another thought, he called her back.

"Is the manager around by any chance?" he asked.

"Yes. I think he's in his office."

"Might I have a word?" He smiled at her and dug in his pocket for a card. "Detective Inspector Faraday. Major Crimes Team."

Winter found the techie from Special Ops waiting for him on the quay side He'd phoned him half an hour earlier from Kingston Crescent, straight out of a meeting with Cathy Lamb, and the man had assured him that everything was in place. His name was Gulliver. Thanks to P amp;O, he'd taken the day crossing to Le Havre and back, plenty of time to install mikes and a tiny video camera wired through to the adjoining cabin. All Winter and his mates had to do was make themselves at home next door and wait for the curtain to go up.

Now, Gulliver hurried Winter towards the gantry that offered foot passengers access to the ferry. The ship towered above them, tall as a block of flats, forbidding in the spill of light from the quay side floods. The last of the inbound lorries were still grinding off the ramp at the bow, but the turn round times were tight and the waiting queue of vehicles in the embarkation park would soon be loading.

Inside the ferry, cleaners were hoovering around the reception desk.

Gulliver had already made his number with the ship's purser, a middle-aged woman with nice legs and a busy manner. She shook Winter's outstretched hand, then glanced at her watch. Time was evidently moving on.

"I'm still not clear how many of you we're expecting."

"Six. Myself and five others."

"They'll be here soon?"

"Two have already arrived, both plain clothes." It was Gulliver. "I put them in the cabin."

"Really? What about the rest?"

Winter took over. Danny French, the other DC from the squad, would be here any minute. Winter had left him at Kingston Crescent, looking for his passport.

"He doesn't need a passport. Unless you plan to get off."

"It's a contingency, that's all." Winter was at his smoothest. "The other two guys are from Scenes of Crime."

"And they're the ones who need access to the vehicle decks?"

"Please." Winter glanced at Gulliver. "You arranged for a fix on Valentine's motor?"

"I did it this afternoon on the way over. The loading officer's got the details. He'll let us know the lane number and access door as soon as they're through down below."

The purser looked at her watch again.

"Are these Scenes of Crime people in uniform? Only our passengers might get a little bit ' "No." Winter shook his head. "They're both plain clothes. They belled me half an hour ago. They're in a white van. It's all booked through. In fact they're probably in the car park now."

"And they'll liaise with you?"

"Yeah." Winter nodded. "Once we've sorted Mr. Valentine I'll give them a ring and they can come down to the cabin. They'll need Valentine's car keys before they start on his motor."

The purser nodded. She was looking thoughtful now.

"What does "sorted" mean?" she said at last.

The traffic was light on the motorway out of the city. The rain had gone through hours ago and Faraday could see a fat yellow moon rising in the east. The wind was cold through the open window and there were torn shreds of cloud over the distant shadows of Portchester Castle.

At the top of the harbour, Faraday took the Southampton arm of the motorway, easing into the slow lane for the long ascent through Portsdown Hill. He couldn't be sure, not absolutely sure, but his instinct told him that it was too good a clue to ignore. His whole career had been built on moments like this, a scrap of a memory tucked away and suddenly retrieved. He knew it needed, at the very least, explanation. He sensed, beyond that, the possibility that it might bring this whole sorry episode to some kind of closure. Closure, he thought, was all too exact a term the kind of word a psychiatrist might use — and he shuddered to think what the next couple of hours might bring.

Twenty minutes later he took the motorway exit for Southampton's eastern suburbs, finding himself in a tangle of roundabouts and trading estates. He drove around for a while looking for a landmark he recognised, eventually finding a pub called the Battle of Britain. From here, a slight hill led down to the housing estate. The road into the estate was on the right. A couple more turns and he'd be looking for the house with Joyce's Datsun in the drive. From that point on, providing he'd got this thing right, there'd be no turning back.

Joyce came to the door on his second knock. She was wearing a loose pair of tracksuit bottoms and a pink crew-neck top. The kitchen door was open at the end of the little hall and Faraday caught the tang of frying garlic.

"Sheriff…" She beamed up at him. "Hey, nice surprise. Come in.

You eaten at all. Only She frowned, looking down. "What the heck's that?"

"It's a warrant card, Joyce."

"You think I don't know who you are?" She looked up at him. "What is this?"

"Business, Joyce. We can do this two ways. We can have a chat and you can tell me what you know. Or' he nodded beyond her '- I can just get on with it."

"Get on with what?"

"Searching your house."

"I vote for talking." She stepped back. "You want a drink or anything, because sure as hell I do."

Faraday settled for a cup of tea. Joyce opened a new bottle of Bailey's. By the time the tea was brewed, she was on her second glass.

"I still don't get it." She reached for the milk jug. "You're telling me you've got a list there. Little moi is top of the list? Is that it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But why? How come? What makes you think I'm interested in talking to a scumbag like Mackenzie when we've just spent a year trying to nail him to the fucking wall?"

"No one says you've been talking to Mackenzie. It doesn't have to work like that."

"It doesn't, huh?" Her hand was shaking. Some of the milk slopped into the saucer. "So do us a favour, sheriff, just tell me how it does work."

Faraday had never associated Joyce with anger before. Even when the pressures at Highland Road had made everyone else lose it, she had always stayed calm, the still centre at the very heart of the storm.

Now, she could barely contain herself.

"Can I tell you something? I thought we were friends."

"We are friends, Joyce."

"Yeah, but real friends, friends who look out for each other, friends who care. All this shit… Where does it all come from?"

"It's a job, Joyce. It's what I'm paid for. The quicker we resolve it, the sooner' he shrugged 'everything gets back to normal."

"And you think that's possible? Take a look at yourself, Joe Faraday.

There are better ways of handling this. Ever think about the phone?

Little call to clear things up? Old times' sake?"

"It doesn't work that way."

"Sure. So I see. Go right ahead. Interrogation time. You want me to draw the curtains? You want to spill a little blood here? Have a real party?"

She sat back, nursing her empty glass. Apart from a nest of Beanie Babies, she seemed to occupy most of the sofa.

"Let's start with your husband."

"What about him?"

"He left you, didn't he? Went off with the probationer?"

"Sure. The lovely Bethany. One sweet babe."

"And now?"

"He wants to come home again. Just goes to show, doesn't it? Guys like him think only the young know about sex. Shame it's taken him this long to find out what he's missing. Poor child."

"So no chance of him coming back?"

"Absolutely none." She smiled at him, held her arms wide open. "Help yourself, sheriff. Meet a girl who knows a thing or two about hospitality."

Faraday ducked his head. The next bit, he knew, was going to be tricky.

"Is there anyone else?" he asked at last.

"Like who?"

"I've no idea. That's why I'm asking."

"You think I can't live without a man? You're right. I can't. Is it easy to find one? The kind of man that suits a girl like me? The kind of man who knows a thing or two? Right again. It isn't."

"So what do you do?"

"I look, Joe. I get out there and keep my fingers crossed and just sometimes I say a little prayer. Oh God, send me a man. You religious at all, Joe? Only it's true, it sometimes helps."

"You found a man?"

"I have. And he's lovely. In fact he's the loveliest thing I can imagine."

"Who is he?"

"No way." She was shaking her head.

"You're not going to tell me?"

"No."

For a moment, it occurred to Faraday that she might be fantasising.

Conversations like this could go on all night.

"What if I have a look round?"

That's your decision. It happens that I think you won't, but you might."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you're a decent man. And because you haven't got a search warrant."

"I can get one. And you know I wouldn't have to leave. A phone call would do it."

"Sure. And it would be the middle of tomorrow before the thing turned up. Are you planning that long a stay, Joe? Should we think again about something to eat?"

Faraday knew she was trying to get the better of him, to marshal those memories, all those long-ago debts of gratitude he undoubtedly owed her. She'd been tireless and big-hearted as his stand-in management assistant. After Vanessa had been killed in the car accident, Joyce had filled more holes than one.

Faraday reached in his pocket for his mobile.

"What are you doing, sheriff?"

"Phoning for a warrant."

"You're a callous bastard. You're stringing me along… Oh shit, why not? Go ahead. Help yourself."

She swung her legs up onto the sofa, then changed her mind and reached for the bottle. When she'd recharged the glass she raised it to her lips, eyeing him over the rim. Faraday hadn't moved.

"No clues, Joe." She sipped at the Bailey's. "You're on your own now."

The Le Havre ferry sailed ten minutes late. By midnight, with the lights of the mainland fast disappearing through the porthole, Winter was beginning to think that he'd got it wrong.

Valentine and Misty Gallagher had come straight down to the cabin with an overnight bag between them. Valentine had then disappeared, returning minutes later with two bottles of champagne and a litre of Bacardi. It was hard to be certain on the tiny black and white monitor screen, but the champagne looked like Krug.

With the other three DCs crouched on the bottom bunks, Winter had watched Misty undress and slide between the sheets while Valentine readied two crystal glasses from the overnight bag and opened a bottle of champagne. He was a tall man, well preserved, with a greying mop of curly hair, and when he slipped his shirt off, it was evident that he worked out. He'd handed the brimming glasses to Misty and climbed in beside her. They'd finished the first bottle by the time the ferry was easing away from the quay side and were making love when The Pride of Portsmouth slipped out through the harbour narrows.

The watching DCs monitored this performance with interest. Valentine was clearly in love with oral sex and it was obvious that Misty's inventiveness had survived the years of heavy-duty shagging with Bazza Mackenzie. It was, muttered one of the DCs, a bit like watching early porn: black and white and slightly fuzzy.

Now, forty minutes later, Misty and Valentine appeared to be asleep.

The lights in the cabin were still on but their eyes were closed, Misty's head nestled on Valentine's chest.

"What do you think, then?" Danny French was inspecting their own bottle of Scotch. Gulliver had left it on the tiny table under the porthole, a parting gift from Special Ops. It was a nice gesture, they all agreed, and it would be a shame to waste it.

As senior DC, the decision rested with Winter.

"Give it another half-hour." He was looking at his watch.

"Yeah, but who says Mackenzie's even on board? Weren't they supposed to bell you if he turned up and bought a ticket?"

Winter didn't answer. He'd got the promise of a phone call from one of the P amp;O clerks in the booking hall at the ferry port but told himself there were a million reasons why she might not have got through. Maybe she'd been snowed under with other punters. Maybe Mackenzie had given her some kind of runaround. Maybe he'd paid cash for a ticket and not given a name. Maybe she'd mislaid Winter's mobile number. Fuck knows.

The minutes dragged past. Misty stirred in her sleep, wrapping herself more tightly around Valentine. Their conversation earlier had told Winter absolutely nothing about either Mackenzie or the contents of the BMW X5 below. They were, on this evidence, a middle-aged couple with a lively sex life en route to some kind of holiday abroad. Only Misty's muttered "Good fucking riddance' as Gunwharf drifted past the porthole offered a glimpse of something more permanent.

By now, the steady roll of the ferry told Winter they were out in open water. One of the DCs had climbed onto the top bunk and had his eyes closed. The other two, French's idea, were playing cards. Suddenly, unnanounced, came a thunderous knocking at Valentine's cabin door.

Winter got to his feet, his eyes glued to the TV screen, and gave the dozing DC a shake.

"Get up," he hissed. "It's kicking off."

French was trying to suppress a laugh. Valentine had swung his legs out of the bunk and was standing in the middle of the cabin looking blearily at the door. Whatever dream he'd just abandoned must have been good because he was sporting a sizeable erection.

"Who is it?" he called.

Misty was up on one elbow now, the sheet clutched to her chin. There came another thump at the door, then a voice. Mackenzie. No attempt at disguise.

"Open this fucking door."

Valentine exchanged looks with Misty.

"Who is it?"

"Baz."

"What do you want?"

"You, mate. Open up, else I'll kick the fucker in."

Valentine was reaching for a towel. The erection was beginning to flag. When he shot a helpless look at Misty, she simply shrugged.

Valentine unlocked the door and stepped gracefully back as Mackenzie tumbled in. The manoeuvre reminded Winter of a bullfight he'd once seen in Segovia, the wounded animal charging blindly around, unpredictable, immensely dangerous. Caged in this tiny cabin, thought Winter, Mackenzie could only get worse.

"You're pissed, Baz." Valentine had shut the door again.

"Think so?"

Mackenzie snatched at the towel, then stood motionless, his eyes moving slowly from Valentine to the bunk. Misty was starting to laugh.

"You should have told us you were coming," she said lightly. "We could at least have been decent."

Faraday had nearly finished downstairs. There'd been nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the way of letters or calendar notes or scribbled reminders. Dialling 1471 had produced a London number, which Faraday wrote down, while the redial button took him through to a recorded message announcing that British Gas would be open again for enquiries at 8.00 a.m. When Faraday accessed the message tape, a woman's voice reminded Joyce that bowling had changed to Wednesdays, half seven, same place.

"I'm better than you might think," Joyce announced from the sofa. "Must be that goddam prairie adolescence. Queen of the Grand Islands bowl.

Winter of '78." She was drunk now, toasting him with the empty glass as he turned his attention to the drawers in her sideboard. After a while, she struggled off the sofa and made her way carefully towards the CD player. Not Peggy Lee this time but Sarah Vaughan.

Faraday eyed the stairs. He knew he had no choice, not if he was going to box this thing off, but he was aware of the first stirrings of doubt. There were going to be casualties here, whatever the result, and one of them was a relationship he cherished.

"Up you go, sweetie. I know you can't wait."

Joyce didn't care any more. She was back on the sofa, her legs folded beneath her, staring into nowhere as the music took her away. Faraday gave her a last backward glance.

"Bedside cabinet," she said tonelessly. "Window side. What the fuck."

She wouldn't look at him.

The bedroom was at the front of the house. Mirrored fitted units, floor to ceiling, lined the wall behind the door. The rest of the room was dominated by an enormous bed. The little cabinet beside it was a flat-pack unit, recently repainted, and on top was the stub of a candle, planted in a puddle of wax in a saucer.

In the top drawer, beneath a Boots bag, Faraday found a pile of letters. He sank onto the bed and sorted quickly through the envelopes. Same handwriting. Same postmark. Dates going back to December last year. He returned to the most recent of letters, knowing that he'd found what he'd come for. Here, he thought, was the relationship that had brought Tumbril to its knees.

He hesitated a moment, curiously loath to read the letter. He was fond of Joyce. She'd been a true friend, there for him, not simply as a stand-in for Vanessa but more recently, only days ago, when he'd felt himself going under. Friday night, at the restaurant, she'd kept his little boat afloat.

"Do it, sheriff."

Faraday looked round, feeling the stir of air. Joyce was standing in the open doorway, gazing across at him.

"You mind if…?" He showed her the envelope. He felt cheap, dirtied by the task he'd set himself.

"Not at all." Joyce shook her head. "You go right ahead."

Faraday slipped the letter out. There were three sheets, writing on both sides, black ink.

"Read me the first paragraph." It was Joyce again. "It's beautiful."

"Listen, Joyce, I'm not sure this '

"You owe me, sheriff. Just do it."

"OK." Faraday shrugged, bending to the letter, trying to decipher the hurried scrawl. "My angel," it began, 'you've made an old man very, very happy. Not just the sex. Not just last night and the night before that and me too knackered to drive the bloody car afterwards.

Not just the perfume and the ten cloves of garlic I had to explain. Not just waking up this morning and wondering where the hell you were. But everything since Christmas, and before that, and now, and God willing, forever. Blokes like me gave up on miracles years ago. Now this."

"There." Joyce was smiling. "I told you."

Faraday nodded, impressed.

"Beautiful," he agreed.

"Yep. And not just on paper, either. You want to tell me what law we've broken? Or do you do this kind of stuff for kicks?"

Faraday didn't answer. There was only one question left and they both knew it. At length, Joyce stepped carefully across. The mattress sighed under her weight and they sat motionless, side by side. Faraday could feel the heat of her body, hear the steady rasp of her breathing.

Finally, he returned the letter to its envelope, giving her the small, revelatory pleasure of naming this new man in her life.

"It's Harry, sheriff." She beamed at him, proud now, her face inches from his. "But you probably guessed that, eh? Being a detective?"

"He's going mad." It was Danny French, crouched in front of the monitor screen. He had a point.

Mackenzie, his broad back perfectly framed by the hidden video camera, was standing between the bunks in the cabin next door, eyeball to eyeball with Valentine. So far, there'd been no violence. Mackenzie had said his piece, produced his evidence, and simply wanted to know the truth. Had Valentine one of his best mates, one of his closest business partners, the man he'd trusted for most of his life really been shagging Misty Gallagher all this time? Or were they all the victim of some fucking evil wind-up? And if the latter was true, what exactly was he supposed to make of some poxy certificate suggesting that Trudy belonged not to him but to Valentine?

To none of these questions did Valentine appear to have any real answer. You're pissed, he kept telling Mackenzie. You're pissed, and you're upset, but there's nothing that a couple of hours decent kip couldn't sort out. Yes, he and Misty were seeing each other. That much was obvious. But what else did he expect a good-looking woman to do if the man in her life went off with some Italian bimbette? To this, Misty added a round of applause. Bazza had just thrown her onto the street. What kind of gratitude was that after everything she'd done for him?

Now, Mackenzie seemed to be losing his bearings. His voice, light as ever, had begun to falter and he kept shaking his head as if something inside had come loose. He needed to find out for sure, he kept saying.

Yet the last thing he seemed able to cope with was the truth.

"Did you?" he kept saying to Valentine. "Were you?"

"What?"

"Shagging? Back then? Before Trudy?" He looked wildly from one to the other, wanting a cast-iron denial, wanting his life preserved in the order he liked it best. This sudden possibility that he'd got it wrong all those years, that he'd been tossed leftovers from the feast that was Misty Gallagher, was visibly hurting him. He needed support, hard evidence, anything that put him back where he belonged. In charge.

Without warning, he reached up to the top bunk and seized Valentine's overnight bag. It was biggish, blue leather, badged with the BMW logo.

He turned it upside down and emptied the contents at Valentine's feet.

Then he was down on his hands and knees, hunting through the tangle of clothing. Winter recognised the book he'd found earlier at Misty's apartment. The Rough Guide to Croatia.

"What's this?" Mackenzie was staring up at Valentine, the book in his hand. "I thought you were going to fucking Spain?"

Valentine said nothing. Misty was flat on her back, the sheet still anchored to her chin, staring at the underside of the bunk above.

Mackenzie had returned to the contents of the bag, feeling around, looking for more clues, more paperwork, anything to put him out of his misery. Finally, he extracted a long white envelope.

"I'd have stuck one on him while he's still got the chance." Winter was nodding at the screen. "Bazza's lost it."

"Fuck-all evidence, though." It was French. "If we're still talking drugs."

"That'll be the least of it. Believe me."

Mackenzie had opened the envelope. He was back on his feet now, swaying with the roll of the ship. He unfolded a couple of sheets and took a tiny step backwards until he was directly under the light. His mouth began to move, shaping the contents of the letter. There was a second sheet of paper. He barely spared it a glance.

"Senj?" He was looking at Valentine.

"It's on the coast, Baz. Little holiday home. Brand new. Path down to the beach. Bit of land at the back. Friendly locals. You'll love it."

"Love it, fuck. You're moving there, aren't you? The pair of you?

Look." He thrust the letter into Valentine's face. "Five bedrooms, double garage. Trude moving out too, is she? Trude and that fucking twat boyfriend detective of hers? Shit, I'm stupid. Stupid. Stupid."

He bent to the floor again, plucked at a piece of clothing, came up with one of Misty's basques.

"Lucky dip, Baz." Valentine was still trying to see the funny side.

"Lucky dip, bollocks. Is that all you can say? After everything we've been through? Everything we've done together? Lucky fucking dip?"

The bellow of rage came through the wall into the adjoining cabin. It was Mackenzie. He'd grabbed the bottle of Bacardi. He swung wildly at the stanchion supporting the bunk. The glass smashed, leaving the neck of the bottle in Mackenzie's hand. Valentine had stepped backwards, pressing himself against the porthole.

"No, Baz," he kept saying. "Listen."

Mackenzie was staring at Misty. He looked like a man who'd suddenly found himself in a place he didn't recognise. Nothing made sense.

Nothing fitted. Some of the Bacardi had splashed on his jeans. The rest had ended up on the pile of clothes at his feet. He knelt again and abandoned the bottle, his hands moving blindly over the garments.

He lifted a T-shirt of Misty's and buried his face in it, breathing in, then balled the garment in his fist and let it drop. He looked up at her one last time, then dug in the pocket of his jeans. Winter caught the flare of the lighter, realised what would happen next.

"He's going to torch the place." He tore open the door of the cabin.

"Fucking no way."

Valentine's cabin door was unlocked. Winter was first in. Mackenzie had set fire to the letter he'd found in the overnight bag and was holding it at arm's length. Any second now he was going to drop it onto the spirit-soaked pile of clothing on the floor.

Valentine, by the porthole, seemed mesmerised. Misty was screaming.

Winter hauled Mackenzie backwards, trying to grab his hand, but Mackenzie dropped the burning letter. There was a soft whoosh and a lick of blue flame as Winter ripped a blanket from the top bunk and began to smother the fire. The other DCs filled the tiny cabin. A smoke alarm began to wail.

"Arrest him," Winter yelled over his shoulder. "Get the cuffs on."

"What charge?"

Winter was still jumping on the blanket, the broken glass crunching beneath his shoes.

"Arson." He was running out of breath. "What do you fucking think?"

Faraday was back in the lounge, waiting for Joyce to reappear from the bathroom. At length, she stepped carefully downstairs. Cold water seemed to have brightened her mood.

"You mind if I ask you a question or two?" Faraday said.

"Sure, go ahead. Let's make a night of it."

"How long has it been going on? You and Harry Wayte?"

Joyce studied him a moment. "Are we on the record here? Do you want to caution me?"

"No. It's just a question."

"OK." She nodded. "Best part of a year."

"That's most of Tumbril."

"You're right. Though Harry came first." She smiled. "Always."

She said that she'd met him in the bar at Kingston Crescent. He'd been celebrating a Crown Court result on a contraband conspiracy. They'd had a few drinks and Harry had volunteered to drive her home.

"Here? To Southampton?"

"Sure. He's a gentleman. Thought I deserved a little attention."

They'd met a couple of times over the succeeding weeks, pubs and cafe-bars off the beaten track, often in Southampton. Pretty soon, Harry was turning up with a bottle or two in the evening. No need to waste money on other people's booze.

"And…?" Faraday was nodding at the stairs.

"Sure. He wanted it. I wanted it. The surprise was we fitted so well. Ever find that, Sheriff? That Eadie of yours?"

The affair had deepened in the autumn. Harry was married but his wife was out most nights, busy with a thousand little pursuits. His kids had gone. The house was empty. And Joyce was happy to make room in her life for two. No formal commitment. No talk of divorce and remarriage and all that shit. Just each other, three or four times a week. Great sex, great conversation, chance to cook for two.

"What did you talk about?"

"Everything. Me, him, my creep of a husband, his pudding of a wife, places we'd been, places we'd like to go."

"Together?"

"Sure."

"Like where?"

"Me? I had a thing about Marrakesh. Still do, matter of fact. Harry?

He wants to take me to Russia."

"Moscow?"

"Volgograd. Apparently there was a battle there."

"And you think you'll make it?"

"Sure. You want something bad enough, it'll happen."

Faraday nodded. Marta, he thought. And a year of stolen weekends.

"You mentioned conversation. What else do you talk about?"

"Everything. Is that a big deal?"

"It could be." He paused. "Does "everything" include the job?"

"Of course. Harry's pissed off, big time, and from what he tells me I don't blame him."

"Tumbril?"

For a moment, Joyce said nothing. This, they both knew, was where friendship parted company with something infinitely less elastic.

"I've mentioned it from time to time," she said carefully. "Heck, it's impossible not to."

"So he knows about the operation?"

"Sure. But I just confirmed a rumour. Nothing comes to Harry as a surprise."

"He told you he knew already?"

"Sure."

"And you believed him?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"Because he's a detective, Joyce. And a bloody good one. Detectives lie all the time. You know that. It's part of the MO."

"So you're telling me I should have kept my mouth shut?"

"I'm telling you it might have been better to stick to Marrakesh.

You're in the shit now, Joyce. And so is Harry."

"You going to talk to him?"

"Somebody will."

"Officially?"

"Afraid so."

"You want me to phone him? Stand him by?"

"You'll do that anyway."

"Too damn right I will." She smiled at him. "You mind me asking you a question?"

"Not at all."

"What brought you here tonight? Why me?"

Faraday studied her for a long moment. Then he explained about the phrase Mackenzie had used in the conversation with Wallace, a phrase that could only have come from the earlier briefing on Whale Island.

Punchy little mush from the backstreets of Copnor.

"Coincidence, sheriff?"

"Doesn't work. Not in real life. If it looks like a duck, odds are it is a duck."

"But there were four people at that briefing. I can see them now. I'm counting. So why me?"

Faraday paused again. No detective in his right mind would answer a question like this.

"I gave you a lift last week," he said at last. "I dropped you off in town. Remember?"

"Sure… and I saw that receipt on your dashboard. The Sally Port.

Room six. You know what I said to Harry that night? I said Harry, Joe Faraday's screwing some woman in a hotel in Old Portsmouth. And you know what Harry said? He said good luck to him."

"Did you give him the room number? The date?"

"Probably. This girl's a stickler for detail. Part of my charm." She paused. The smile had returned, warmer this time. She put her hand on Faraday's arm. "Tell me something, sheriff."

"What's that?"

"Was it true about the woman? Room six?"