Cut to Black

Chapter twenty-five

TUESDAY, 25 MARCH 2003, 07.$8

Faraday awoke a minute or two before eight to find Eadie already gone.

A note on the pillow said she'd departed on a mission. An invitation to lunch at a Southsea restaurant followed, sealed with a flamboyant kiss.

For once, Faraday resisted the temptation to turn on the bedside radio.

The war, as far as he could gather, had turned into a showcase for American technology, inch-perfect uppercuts delivered from hundreds of miles away thanks to the miracles of laser targeting and GPS. Sooner rather than later, American armoured columns would thunder into Baghdad, Bush would declare peace, and then in all probability — the real war would begin.

The big, bare living room was already bathed in sunshine. In the kitchenette Faraday was hunting for a fresh box of tea bags when he caught the trill of his mobile.

"Faraday?" It was Harry Wayte. "What the fuck's going on?"

Harry wasted no time on small talk. He'd had a call from Joyce. Last night's little visit had been totally out of order. What kind of copper took advantage of a friendship to go banging around in someone else's private life?

Twice, Faraday tried to interrupt, to explain himself, to put everything into some kind of context, but he knew there was no point.

"You want a meet?" he managed at last.

"Too fucking right, I do. And nowhere near the nick, either."

"Car park on Farlington Marshes? Half ten?"

"I'll be there."

Wayte rang off, leaving Faraday gazing at the mobile. He knew with total certainty that Harry Wayte had blown Tumbril not just part of it, but all of it. He walked across to the window and stared out. High tide, he thought numbly, watching the water lapping at the landing stage on Spit Bank Fort. He stood motionless for a moment or two, wondering whether Gisela Mendel was in residence, whether she, too, was up and half-dressed, gazing out at the makings of a tricky day.

Faraday returned to the kitchenette and retrieved his mobile. Willard answered his call on the second ring. He was still at home in Portsmouth but was due to leave for Winchester any minute. Faraday kept it short. He had compelling evidence that the Tumbril disaster was down to Harry Wayte. And now Harry wanted a meet.

"Who with?"

"Me."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Half ten."

"How sure are you? About Harry?"

"Very sure."

"Stay there. I need to talk to someone."

Willard was back on the phone within minutes. Faraday was perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of tea.

"Where are you at the moment?"

"Eadie's place. South Parade." He gave Willard the address.

There was a brief pause. Then Willard was back on the line.

"Someone'll be round within the hour. Face you might recognise."

"Like who?"

"Graham Wallace."

"Wallace? Why?"

"I want you to wear a wire to the meet." Willard wasn't interested in arguments. "I'm going to sort that bastard Wayte if it's the last thing I do. Wind him up, Joe, Press his buttons. I want evidence. I want the thing wrapped up by lunchtime. You hear what I'm saying?"

It took Eadie Sykes the best part of half an hour to dupe the VHS cassette she needed at Ambrym. With the dub under way, she checked her watch, wondering whether it was too early to risk a call to Kingston Crescent. One way or another, she was determined to prise J-J free from the threat of further police action. Given the prospects for the video, it was the least she owed him.

Secretan's name took Eadie through to a woman who appeared to be in charge of the Chief Supt's diary. She had a light Ulster accent and wanted to know how pressing a need she had to talk to her boss.

"Very pressing," Eadie told her. "If he's there, just mention a name."

"Yours?"

"Daniel Kelly. I've made a video about him and I think Mr. Secretan should take a look."

The assistant put Eadie on hold. Then it was suddenly Secretan himself on the line.

"Eadie Sykes?"

"That's me. I was just wondering '

"Where are you?"

"Down the road."

"I can spare you a couple of minutes. Now would be good."

It was less than a mile to the police station at Kingston Crescent.

Eadie left the Suzuki in a supermarket car park across the road and found a uniformed WPC waiting for her at the front desk. Secretan's office was on the first floor. The woman with the Ulster accent offered her a cup of tea or coffee.

"Coffee, please. Black."

Secretan appeared from his office and stood aside as Eadie stepped in.

He gestured at the chair in front of his desk and opened the window.

"Beautiful day. Far too nice to be banged up in here." He turned back into the room. "What can I do for you?"

Eadie told him about the video. At the mention of J-J and his contribution to the camera work and the research, he nodded.

"You're talking about Joe Faraday's boy?"

"Yes." She hesitated. "Joe and I are good friends."

"Is that something I should be aware of? Is it' he smiled at her 'germane?"

"I've no idea. I just thought I'd get it out of the way." She plunged a hand into her day sack and produced the video cassette. "This is the final cut, minus the funeral."

"What do you do? Leave a space?"

"Yes."

"Bit like real life, then."

"Exactly." Eadie was beginning to warm to this man. He was down to earth, real, and he had an easy sense of humour. "Do you want to see it?"

"Now?"

"Why not?"

Secretan glanced at his watch, then left the office. Eadie strained to catch the brief conversation next door, then Secretan was back again.

"We've got forty minutes, tops," he said. "The machine's down in the corner. Best if you do the honours."

Eadie loaded the cassette and resumed her seat. She must have seen the video dozens of times by now but in new company it always felt a subtly different experience. Secretan sat in silence through the viewing.

Twice he reached for a pen and scribbled himself a note. At the end, he nodded.

"Powerful," he murmured. "You've got permissions for all this stuff?"

"Every last frame."

"And what happens now?"

Eadie explained about distribution. It would be going into schools, youth groups, colleges, anywhere an audience could spare twenty-five minutes of their busy, busy lives.

"They'd be crazy not to."

"That's my feeling." Eadie knelt to the player and retrieved the cassette. "You haven't asked me about the funding yet."

"Should I?"

"Well, yes. The way it works, I had to raise half the budget under my own steam. That meant hundreds of letters, phone calls, tantrums, you name it. In the end, I got 5000 from the Police Authority, 7000 from a businessman donated through a cut-out, and about 2000 from other sources.

"Cut-out?"

"My ex-husband. He's an accountant. Mr. Bountiful wanted to stay out of it." She smiled and slipped the video cassette into its plastic box. "With my 14,000, I fronted up to the local partnership. They match-fund. It's government money, as I'm sure you know."

Secretan nodded. Eadie could see he hadn't a clue where any of this might lead.

"So?"

"So I end up with 28,000, which is fine, and I put together what you've just seen. You think it works?"

"I think it's extremely effective. In fact I'd go further. I think it's bloody excellent."

"Good. Unfortunately, there's a problem."

"How come?"

"The guy with the seven grand turns out to be called Bazza Mackenzie."

Secretan allowed himself a small, private smile. There was indeed a problem.

"This film is co-sponsored by Mackenzie?"

"That's right. And in the poshest company." She smiled. "As you can see."

"Why Mackenzie? What was in it for him?"

"Lots, the way he figured it. That's why I told him no deal."

"When was this?"

"Yesterday. He was after a share of the profits. I pointed out there won't be any profits."

"Do you know what Mackenzie does' Secretan frowned 'for a living?"

"Now I do, yes."

"And do you know he's just been arrested for arson? On a cross-Channel ferry?"

Eadie thought about this development for a moment or two. In essence, it changed nothing.

"The fact remains he paid for the thing. Or helped to."

"Indeed." Secretan nodded. He pushed back his chair and went across to the window again. "We're talking about J-J, aren't we?"

"Yes. He's on police bail. Pending further inquiries."

Secretan said nothing. Eadie watched him at the window, deep in thought. At length, he turned back to her.

"Great film," he extended a hand, 'and outstanding camera work Eadie got to her feet and shook his hand. Secretan started to laugh.

"I meant the video." His hand was still out. "There are one or two other people who ought to take a look."

The entrance to the RSPB bird sanctuary on Farlington Marshes lies at the end of a gravel track that runs beside the main east-west motorway at the top of the city. Most birds are driven south by the incessant thunder of traffic, feasting on the rich mud flats that ring the tongue of salt marsh extending deep into Langstone Harbour. A scrap of land off the slip road from the motorway offers parking for visitors to the sanctuary. Faraday was there with five minutes to spare.

At length, eager for something to take his mind off the imminent encounter, he got out of the Mondeo and looked around. The gravel was littered with broken glass from yet another vehicle break-in and he kicked the worst of it away before slipping his Leica binoculars from their case and propping his elbows on the car roof.

On the second sweep, he caught sight of a pair of lapwings, windmilling above the salt marsh. He'd glimpsed them earlier from the road, driving down beside the harbour, and there they were, in perfect close-up. Absorbed by the small drama of their flight, he failed to hear Harry Wayte's arrival. Only when the DI got out of his car and crunched towards him across the gravel did Faraday turn round.

"Walk?" Wayte set off down the track towards the picket gate at the end without a backward glance.

All too conscious of the tiny Nagra snugly taped to the small of his back, Faraday followed. For the second time in twelve hours, he felt wretched. Even now, in ruins, Tumbril had the power to overwhelm him.

It was a beautiful morning, a cloudless blue sky with a feather of breeze but scarcely a ripple on the water. Away to the south, barely visible on the horizon, the white smudge of the Bargemaster's House.

Wayte pushed through the gate at the end of the track. From here, a path on top of the sea wall circled the edge of the reserve. The two men had yet to break the silence.

"Why go bothering her, Joe?" Wayte said at last. If anything, he sounded reproachful.

"Because we just lost a year's worth of work and God knows how much money. But then you'd know that, Harry."

"I would?"

"Of course you would."

"Why's that?"

Faraday brought Harry Wayte to a halt. Awkwardness had given way to anger. This man had just destroyed a year's work. No point, he thought, in ducking the obvious.

"You're not denying that you and Joyce…?"

"Have been shagging? Christ no, Joe. Far from it."

"And I gather you discussed Tumbril."

"Is that what she told you?"

"Yes." Faraday gazed at him, waiting for some kind of comment. Wayte didn't say a word. "You're telling me you knew nothing about Tumbril}"

"Nothing that every other bugger in the force didn't know. You blokes have been chasing your tails. If you're trying to set me up for the fall or Joyce then you'd better think again."

"So you never discussed the operation?"

"Pillow talk? Tumbril? Forget it."

"OK." Faraday had never expected this to be easy. "Then let's pretend you've had a lapse of memory. Let's imagine you've got what Nick Hayder's got a bloody great hole instead of perfect recall. Let's even pretend that I was right, that you did discuss Tumbril, that in fact you knew everything. Are you with me?" The question drew a wary nod from Wayte. "OK, so you've had dealings with Mackenzie before. I checked the records this morning. You've been passed over for DCI.

You're pissed off with the job and you can't wait to leave. You also, as we all know, think Tumbril's a complete waste of space. Why?

Because the way you see it, Mackenzie helps keep the peace. You may have a point, Harry. You may even be right. But that's not it, is it?

Because the last thing you do in this job is go telling tales to the enemy."

"Enemy?" Wayte threw his head back and began to laugh. "Are we talking the same bloke here? The hooligan I nicked for affray twenty years back?"

"Yes." Faraday nodded. "Nine million quid's worth of hooligan if you want the exact figure."

"And you really think I've been mouthing off to him? Marking his card?"

"Yes."

"Can you prove it?"

The question had been a long time coming. Faraday took Wayte by the arm but Wayte shook him off. The two men began to walk again.

"Professional Standards are mounting a major investigation," Faraday said. "That'll take months, Harry. They'll turn everyone over me, you, Joyce, all of us."

"And Willard, too. He was SIO, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"So how come you think they can tie any of this to me?"

"Because you'll have been careless, Harry, as well as greedy. There'll be a trace. There always is. And somewhere down the line, sooner or later, they'll find it."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm asking you to have a think, Harry. For the record, I've got you down as a bloody good cop. I don't agree with everything you've said lately but you wouldn't expect me to."

Wayte nodded, then gazed out over the harbour. Tempers had cooled. To Faraday's surprise, this was turning into a negotiation.

"You know I'm retiring in September?" Wayte asked at last. "Joyce tell you that?"

"She didn't but you did, Harry. Couple of days ago? Up in the bar at Kingston Crescent?"

"Did I? Shit…" He pulled a face, not the least embarrassed. "And did I tell you I can't bloody wait?"

"That, too."

"Bugger me… I must be getting old."

"Happens, Harry."

Faraday brought them both to a halt again. Metres from the sea wall, a pair of dunlin were loitering with intent amongst the seaweed on the foreshore. Faraday watched them for a moment, then he reached under his anorak and turned off the recorder.

Wayte had followed his every movement. The rueful smile had disappeared.

"Bastard," he said softly.

"I've turned it off, Harry, not on. You want to check?"

"Bastard," he repeated.

Faraday studied him a moment, then shrugged. He was doing this man a big favour. Whether he chose to see it that way was his problem.

"I went down to the Sally Port the other night and had a little chat to the manager. He remembers you coming in on Saturday, Harry. You wanted to know about the occupant of room six on Wednesday last. You made it official and so he told you. Guy called Graham Wallace, he said. Gave you his home address, car registration, credit card details, the lot. That was a bit over the top, Harry. All Mackenzie really needed was the name plus the fact that I'd called in to see him." Faraday took a last look at the dunlin, then patted Wayte on the arm. "You've got my mobile number, Harry. Give me a ring."

Faraday was back in his office at Kingston Crescent, waiting for a chance to see Willard, when his mobile began to ring. He checked the number. Harry Wayte.

"Harry?"

"Me. Listen, you alone?"

"Yes."

"I've had a bit of a think about this morning. Fact is, mate, I'm up to here with it."

"With what?"

"The poxy job. I'm binning it. Early retirement. I'll be doing the paperwork this afternoon."

"Harry' Faraday had pushed his chair back from the desk 'are you sure you've thought this through?"

"Yeah… But listen, Joe, the way I see it is this." He began to talk about his current caseload, how few of the jobs were going anywhere, and as he did so Faraday was doing the sums. He and Wayte, both DIs, were on the same pay grade. By handing in his ticket six months early, Faraday estimated Wayte would be kissing goodbye to 2.0,000 worth of commutation. When Wayte paused for breath, Faraday went through the sums with him. In fairness, it was the least he could do.

Wayte listened, then cut Faraday short.

"Joe, I'm not deaf. I heard what you said this morning. Twenty grand?

What makes you think I can't make that up elsewhere?"

Faraday stared at his mobile.

"What did you just say?"

"You heard me. We never had this conversation but twenty grand's fuck all in some circles, as you well know." He began to laugh. Then the phone went dead.

Willard's office was across the corridor.

"Joe." The Det-Supt barely looked up from his PC. "You talked to Wayte?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I'll be with you in a minute."

Faraday settled himself at the conference table. Willard finally joined him. For a big man, Faraday thought, he looked strangely diminished, even forlorn.

"So how did it go?"

"Nothing actionable. He'll fight the inquiry all the way."

"Nothing?" Willard was frowning. "I thought you told me he'd blown Tumbril?"

"He has. That's exactly what he's done."

"To Mackenzie?"

"I assume so."

"Assume so? What kind of dog wank is that?"

Willard rarely stooped to canteen language. He was plainly under immense pressure.

Faraday leaned forward, taking the chance to explain exactly what had happened over the last twenty-four hours. How he'd isolated that single phrase about Mackenzie on the tape from the Solent Palace. How the phrase had to have come from a Tumbril meeting. How he'd shrunk the suspect list to just four names. And what had emerged from last night's visit to Joyce's place.

"So she's been shagging Harry Wayte?"

"Yes."

"Fucking hell. And giving him all our secrets?"

"They talk. Shagging isn't a crime. Neither is conversation."

"It bloody well is when it goes straight to Mackenzie."

"That's not Joyce's fault."

"Of course it is, Joe. She signed an undertaking about Tumbril. By talking to Harry, she broke it. She's either stupid or guilty. You're telling me she trusts this man?"

"She's in love with him. It's often the same thing… As we all know."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Nothing, sir. But you know it and I know it. Get really serious about someone and the rest of it goes out of the window."

"The rest of it being Tumbril}'1

"Yes."

"What about Wayte? What's his line?"

"He wants early retirement. Insists, in fact."

"He's copping out?"

"Yes. It's the white flag. He's jacking it in."

Willard brooded about this news for a moment. Then he looked up at Faraday again.

"So what does he have to say about Mackenzie?"

"Nothing. He denies everything. He's insisting he's never said a word to Mackenzie and it's up to PSD to prove otherwise. He'll take them to the wire."

"And there's absolutely no hard evidence that ties him to Mackenzie?"

"None. Joyce admits she discussed Tumbril with him."

"About what? Specifically?"

"About a booking at the Sally Port. Room six. Graham Wallace."

"Last week, you mean?"

"Yes."

"How the fuck did she know about that?"

"I…" Faraday felt about twelve '… left a room service receipt in the car from the afternoon I was with Wallace. Joyce happened to see it. Thought I was over the side. Passed it on as gossip. Like you do."

"Great. Wonderful. The receipt had Wallace's name on it?"

"No, sir, just the room number."

"So how did Joyce tie the receipt to Wallace?"

"Wayte fronted up at the hotel. Sat the manager down and did the business."

"As a copper?"

"As a DI. Warrant card, the lot."

"You know that?"

"I talked to the manager last night."

"Got a statement off him?"

"No… but it's there for the taking."

"Thank Christ for that. Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"The tape from this morning?"

"Useless. Packed up halfway through. Technical fault."

Willard nodded. Back at his desk, he put a call through to the Chief Supt. heading the Professional Standards Department. Briefly, he passed on the news about the manager at the Sally Port. PSD should get someone down there sharpish. Harry Wayte, in his view, was on a nicking. And so was Joyce. The conversation over, he turned to Faraday again.

"That Harry Wayte," he said softly, 'is a dead man."

The restaurant Eadie had chosen for lunch was in the heart of Southsea.

Sur-la-Mer offered decent French cuisine at sensible prices with a respectable wine list to go with it. Eadie chose a '95 Rioja, a tacit signal to Faraday that all was well with their world. To Faraday, depressed by the last couple of hours, it was the sweetest possible news. Since she'd got back from Kingston Crescent, she'd received word from the people at the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership. They'd watched their copy of the VHS, and although they'd never expected anything quite as hard-hitting, a first viewing indicated that it might make a bit of an impact.

"Impact?" Faraday laughed, light-headed now. "Christ."

"I talked to one of the girls there. Off the record, she told me they might be up for paying for proper distribution."

"I thought that was all taken care of?"

"No." Eadie snapped a bread stick in two. "I've only budgeted for Hampshire. This would take it nationwide."

"Brilliant." Faraday raised a glass. "Congratulations. You've bloody earned it."

"You really think so?"

"Yes. I've had my doubts but…" They touched glasses. "Turns out I was wrong."

"How does that work?" Eadie couldn't believe her ears.

"Well…" Faraday was frowning now. "If you think there's a problem, a real problem, then you have to confront it. In our job we try and do just that but it's getting harder all the time."

"Yeah?"

"Yes." He nodded. "I can give a list as long as your arm. Changes in the law, everyone moving the goalposts, crap morale, whatever. As a cop you start off wanting to make a difference but in the end it grinds you down. In your game, it isn't like that at all. You answer to no one. You sense a problem out there, you go and tape it. Going gets rough, you ride it out. And in the end, because you won't take no for an answer, you get a result. Nice." He raised his glass. "I applaud you."

"Shit."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Eadie turned her head away. For once in her life, she was close to tears.

The waiter arrived. Faraday chose lamb shank. Eadie, trying to focus on the menu, finally ordered a cheese omelette. Faraday helped himself to more wine. Time to change the subject.

"Why were you after Secretan's name last night?"

"I've been down the nick." Eadie was blowing her nose. "I wanted to talk to him, show him what we've done."

"You need to book weeks ahead. April, if you're lucky."

"Not at all. He saw me then and there. I even got to show him the movie."

"And?" Faraday was astonished.

"He loved it, or said he did." She'd regained her composure by now.

"He knows about J-J, by the way."

"Of course he does."

"I didn't mean that, not just the problems. I told him about J-J's contribution to the film. He was impressed."

Faraday began to get her drift. Remarkable, he thought. Not an angle left uncovered.

"And what did he say about the boy?"

"Nothing. Except I got the impression he… you know… understood."

"Understood what?"

"That J-J made a bit of a difference." She gestured him closer, then leaned over the table and kissed him on the lips. "Mitigation? Isn't that the word?"

The food arrived with a huge plate of vegetables and they began to talk about the possibility of some kind of break. Next month, with the pressures of Tumbril over, Faraday might be able to take a bit of time off. Maybe they could ship over to Bilbao and drive down to Extremadura. This time of year, said Faraday, the spring flowers on the dehesas could be sensational. He could show her eagle owls and griffon vultures, and in Trujillo there was a little bodega that served the best smoked ham in the world.

"Sounds brilliant. Only one problem."

"What's that?"

"Daniel's inquest. It's likely to be the end of April. I'm supposed to be there as a witness."

"Of course. And so you must."

"But later? Say May?"

"Whatever. Just the thought's enough for now."

"You mean that?" Her eyes were swimming again.

"Yep' he reached for the bottle 'sad man that I am."

By late afternoon, Winter was beginning to suspect the worst. An area car had met Mackenzie off the inbound P amp;O ferry and driven him the mile and a half to Central police station. Another had taken Valentine and Misty Gallagher to Waterlooville nick while Scenes of Crime and a team of vehicle engineers did the business on the BMW X5.

At Central, to Winter's alarm, Mackenzie had demanded Hartley Crewdson as his solicitor. Crewdson, arriving within the half-hour, had listened to his client's account of events on the ferry and then asked Winter for a look at the key sections of last night's videotape. Under PACE regulations this was his right, but Winter anticipating the request had done his best to bury the cassette.

Crewdson, who could read Winter like a book, pointed out that arson was an extremely serious offence. Already, he knew that neither Valentine nor Misty Gallagher was prepared to make a statement against Mackenzie.

Asked to explain the incident, they'd agreed it was a joke, a private thing between the three of them that had got out of hand. So just how much weight should Crewdson attach to Winter's version of events?

The Custody Sergeant agreed that the video ought to supply the answer.

A couple of minutes in an empty office was enough to get the tape from Winter. A quarter of an hour later, Crewdson emerged from a private viewing with a smile on his face. The key sequence, he told Winter, proved absolutely nothing. Back view, Mackenzie's and Winter's bodies blocked the action. His client was insisting that Winter himself had forced him to drop the burning letter and there wasn't a shred of evidence to suggest otherwise. A clumsy, unwarranted CID intervention had nearly set the ship on fire.

Now, an hour and a half into the interview that was supposed to put Pompey's top criminal behind bars, Winter was on the back foot. Ninety minutes ago, Mackenzie had confirmed his name, date of birth, and address. After that, with a studied lack of interest, he'd met every question with a muttered "No comment'.

DC Danny French, for the second time in three days, was sharing the interview with Winter. He, too, had plainly abandoned all hope of getting any kind of result. Just how do you penetrate an absolute refusal to start a conversation?

Desperate, Winter decided to go for broke. Shooting a look at Danny French, he eased himself forward across the table, his face inches from Mackenzie's. Winter seldom raised his voice in interview, knowing that matiness unlocked many more doors than aggression, but now his voice had sunk to a whisper.

"Bazza, I have to be honest with you, it's the video that bothers me.

We've talked about the business with the bottle and that letter you set fire to. Fair play, the tape doesn't prove it either way. You've told your brief I made you drop it. I happen to know I didn't. But that's between you and me. No, Baz, it's the earlier stuff on the tape. Maybe we ought to talk about that."

Crewdson glanced across at Mackenzie. Even Danny French seemed puzzled.

"Yeah?" It was the first time Mackenzie had volunteered an answer.

"What of it?"

"Well…" Winter was taking his time now. "Let me see. It must have been pretty early on. We'd only just got going. In fact we were still in the bloody harbour."

"And?"

"They were at it, mate, like rabbits, the pair of them. Not easy in a squitty little bunk, but lots of action. That Misty…" He shook his head. "We can show you if you like, Baz. Be a pleasure."

Crewdson raised a weary hand.

"DC Winter." He sounded, if anything, disappointed. "This is an outrage and you know it."

"Outrage?"

"My client has been arrested for arson. I fail to see the significance of this line of questioning. And, aside from the law, I find it deeply distasteful."

"You do?"

"Indeed. As, I suspect, does my client."

Winter was looking puzzled. "We're not interested in motive here?"

"Motive for what?"

"Arson."

"My client denies the charge. Whatever happened earlier on your videotape has absolutely no bearing on the matter in hand."

"How about we watch the whole tape, then? Take Mr. Mackenzie through it? See what happened before? Put this whole incident in context?" He looked round. "No?"

There was a long silence. Even Danny French was studying his hands.

Finally Mackenzie sat back in his chair. For the first time since the interview began, he was smiling.

"You know something?" He was looking at Winter. "You've fucking lost it."

The interview came to an end twenty minutes later. After a brief conference with Winter and French, the Custody Sergeant summoned Crewdson and told him that for the time being Mr. Mackenzie would not be facing charges. He was granting him police bail while further inquiries were made, but for now he was free to leave.

As Crewdson and Mackenzie headed for the door, the Custody Sergeant beckoned Winter to the desk.

"Message from Scenes of Crime." He put on his glasses and peered at the scribbled note. "They've stripped the BMW but found nothing." He glanced up. "I understand the parties involved have been released."

Winter and French emerged from Central minutes later. It was getting dark by now and it took a moment or two for Winter to recognise the figure standing by the roundabout. Mackenzie.

"Waiting for a lift," French grunted. "Must be."

Winter said nothing. He walked French to his Subaru, glancing over his shoulder to check on Mackenzie again. By the time they were both in the car, he was still at the kerb side still waiting.

For a full minute Winter sat motionless behind the wheel. French wanted to get back to Kingston Crescent.

"Well? Are we here all fucking night or what?"

"Wait."

"Why?"

"Because I say so, OK?" Winter shot him a look, then returned his attention to Mackenzie. French began to argue again but then gave up and reached for the door handle. Better a cab than this farce.

"Look." Winter stopped him.

A sleek Mercedes convertible had pulled up beside Mackenzie. The bulky figure behind the wheel leaned over and opened the passenger door.

"It's Talbot." Winter started the engine and began to pull out of the car park.

"What now?" French was looking alarmed.

"We follow them."

"You're joking. You and another fucking pursuit? Nearly killed Dawn Ellis last year, didn't you?"

"Who said anything about a pursuit?" Winter was enjoying himself at last, back in a plot he understood. "Twenty quid says they're going up to Waterlooville."

"Waterlooville? Why would they do that?"

"Valentine. Unfinished business. Bazza has some sorting out to do."

"And we're going to be there? To watch it all? Terrific'

French sat back, eyes closed, resigned now to whatever might happen next.

The Mercedes headed out of the city. On the dual carriage way that fed rush-hour traffic onto the motorway, Talbot suddenly signalled left, ducking onto the slip road that led down to the ferry port and the northern suburbs.

"He's clocked you," French said drily as they slowed for the roundabout. "I'll get out here. Bloody walk to the office."

Spotting a gap in the oncoming swirl of cars, Winter accelerated hard.

Moments later, they were back behind the Mercedes.

"Subtle," French muttered. "You must have done this before."

Half a mile later the Mercedes indicated left again, turning into a cul-de-sac that led to a scruffy industrial estate. Soon they were bumping over a potholed track, the back of the city's greyhound stadium on one side, a builder's yard on the other. Ahead, the last of the daylight silhouetted a line of ancient military vehicles, awaiting the wrecker's blowtorch.

"The scrap yard Winter was talking to himself. "Maybe they've lifted Valentine already. Got him trussed up and waiting. Baz has done this before." He glanced across at French. "You with me?"

French was fumbling for a cigarette. He wanted no part of this.

The Mercedes had disappeared into the scrap yard Winter pulled into the shadow of the stadium and killed the engine. In the sudden silence came the sigh of the wind off the nearby harbour.

"What now?" It was French. He couldn't find his lighter.

"We get out. Take a look."

"Back-up?"

"Don't need it. You up for this or not?" Winter didn't bother to wait for an answer.

With some reluctance, French joined him in the chilly twilight. They made their way into the scrap yard keeping to the fence on the left.

Beyond a line of army surplus tanks, Winter could make out the whale-like shape of an abandoned submarine beside the scrap yard jetty — rusty, half submerged, a relic from some long-forgotten war.

"Is there another exit?" French was looking for the Mercedes.

Without warning, a pair of headlights pinned them against the fence.

The Mercedes was parked twenty metres away, behind the nearest of the tanks. Clever. An engine purred into life. The car began to roll towards them.

"Now what?" French had stopped.

"Fuck knows." Winter kept walking.

The Mercedes pulled into a tight turn, rolling to a stop beside Winter.

The passenger window slid down, Mackenzie's face shadowed against the glow of the dashboard. Winter looked down at him, then stepped backwards as Mackenzie opened the door. For a moment, neither man said a word. Then Mackenzie beckoned him closer.

"You kill me, you guys," he said. "You think I'm really stupid, don't you? Really thick?"

Winter could smell the gum on his breath. Spearmint.

"He's probably at home, Baz. Tucked up again. Celebrating."

"You took his motor apart?"

"Of course."

"And?"

"Clean as a whistle."

"What a fucking surprise. Don't you cunts ever learn?"

There was a long silence, then a brief flare in the darkness beside the fence. Danny French had evidently found his lighter.

Mackenzie hadn't finished. He had something to get off his chest, something important, and now was the time.

"You know what it boils down to in the end?" he said. "Business.

That's all it is. Just business. You're telling me Valentine's spent the last twenty years knob bing Mist, I believe you. You think any of that makes any difference, you're out of your fucking mind. And you know why? Because I didn't get this far to blow it all over a dog like Mist. Valentine's history, mush. I'll pension him off. He gets Mist for free. Big fucking deal." He paused. "You got all that? Only it might be time for your twat friends in Tumbril to wise up. This game's bigger than you think. In fact it's bigger than anyone thinks." He offered Winter a sudden grin. "Give me a bell sometime if you're desperate. See if we can't work something out… eh?"