Deadlight (16 page)

They ate supper on stools in the kitchen. The lamb was delicious, a half-shoulder with the meat still pink round the bone. Afterwards, picking fat green olives from the salad, Faraday wanted to know more about her film-making. He’d noticed a pile of stationery next to the phone. The stationery was headed Ambrym Productions, and carried her name. Why Ambrym?

‘You know the New Hebrides? Bunch of Pacific islands next to Oz? Ambrym’s where I was conceived.’

Her father had been an English teacher in the Australian government service. He’d volunteered for a posting to the New Hebrides and stayed a while. Sykes had been eleven before the family had returned to Melbourne and still carried the happiest memories of her island childhood. Faraday, eyeing the remains of the lamb, was impressed.

‘You want to be careful.’ Sykes laughed. ‘I might get the album out.’

After secondary school in Melbourne, she’d won a scholarship to the University of Sydney. Three years’ intermittent study had given her a degree in French studies and a lifelong passion for surfing. Waiting table in the evenings at a posh harbourside restaurant, she’d met Doug Hughes. Even then, at twenty-three, he’d known exactly what he wanted in life.

‘Which was?’

‘Me, for starters. That was easy. Then he wanted money, serious money. That took a while longer.’

She’d flown back with him to the UK and a year later, days before her visa expired, they’d got married. By now,
Doug had passed his accountancy exams. Six months with a big city firm had cured him of any desire to work for other people and so they’d come south, to Portsmouth, where his brother was already running an interior design business.

Times were tough in the early eighties but Doug had taken a gamble, setting himself up as a chartered accountant and slowly building a worthwhile list of clients. They’d lived from hand to mouth for a couple of years, renting a two-up, two-down in Fratton, but as credit began to ease they’d taken the plunge and acquired their first mortgage, a cosy little house in central Southsea. Forty grand had been way beyond their means but within a couple of weeks Doug had struck lucky with a new client, and from that point on he’d never looked back.

‘Who was the client?’

‘A builder. Young bloke. Ambitious. Just like Doug. They’ve stuck together ever since. Brothers-in-arms.’

She and Doug moved twice more. The houses got bigger and bigger until the nineties arrived, by which time Doug was fast becoming the rich man of his dreams.

‘That’s when it all went wrong, if you want the truth. Broke, we were really happy, kids living from hand to mouth, but money gives you choices, doesn’t it? Doug used to call it making the most of life. Still does when he gets pissed.’

‘What kind of choices?’

‘Everything, you name it. I’d give you a list but we haven’t got time.’

‘Women?’

‘Of course, by the hundreds. Sometimes I think he found safety in numbers but he’s got married again recently so it can’t be true, can it?’

For the first time, Faraday sensed a wistfulness, the hint of an ache between this tumble of reminiscence, and it occurred to him that her sex life with her ex-husband
might not be quite over. There were lots of ways to pay for a flat like this and an occasional shag for old times’ sake might well be one of them.

‘You haven’t told me about Ambrym Productions,’ he said gently.

‘I haven’t?’

She cleared the plates away and then poured more wine. Divorce had given her a good financial settlement – more money than she’d ever had in her life – but she bored easily and knew she had to find something to do with her time. The local poly ran a production course for aspiring film directors and she’d enrolled. After a couple of years running round with a cheap VHS camera, she’d pretty much mastered the basics and Doug had been happy to stake her when she decided to chance her arm and set up a small production company. Ambrym Productions still occupied the same two rooms in premises in Hampshire Terrace and though she’d never make a fortune, she’d certainly managed to pay her way.

‘It’s fun,’ she said. ‘How many jobs can you say that about?’

Faraday smiled, toying with his wine glass. He liked this woman. She was vivid and gutsy and this story of hers seemed totally in keeping with the warmth of her physical presence. Unlike so many people he knew, she didn’t waste time on regrets or blame. Life, he suspected, would never intimidate her.

‘That film you’re making at the moment. The one with J-J. You were going to show me the …’ Faraday frowned. He couldn’t remember the term.

‘Rough cut. I dubbed a copy and brought it home. Kick off your shoes. I’ll put it on.’

She pulled out a video cassette from a satchel on the floor and slipped it into the player under the big wide-screen television. Faraday made himself comfortable on the sofa. There were worse things in life, he’d decided, than a couple of bottles of Rioja and conversation that
had absolutely nothing to do with DNA and cloned hard disks. It had been this way when he’d first met Marta – a pleasure uncomplicated by any kind of commitment, physical or otherwise – and in the long, empty months since she’d ended the relationship he’d realised just how much he missed the chance to let his guard down. Women, he’d decided, were brilliant at cracking one of life’s toughest challenges: how to relax.

‘Comfy?’ Sykes threw him the remote control and returned to the kitchen to make coffee.

Faraday thumbed the play button and settled down. Expecting shots of tiny launches bucketing in across the Solent, he found himself watching a slow pan across acres of white headstones. There were hundreds of them, bone-white under the bluest of skies. On the soundtrack, haunting flute notes dipped to make way for a man’s voice. It was an old voice, bitter and reflective, and as he began to talk the cemetery on the screen resolved into a single headstone. ‘An Australian Soldier of the 1939–1945 War’ went the inscription. ‘20
^th
– 27
^th
May, 1941’.

Faraday felt a stir of movement beside him. Sykes had returned from the kitchen and was staring at the screen.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Wrong cassette.’

She reached for the remote but Faraday shook his head.

‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘I want to watch.’

Dawn Ellis was in the bath when she heard the knock at the front door. She reached for her watch. Quarter past ten. She listened for a moment or two, then sank back into the water. Whoever it was could come back some other time, preferably at a respectable hour. If it turned out to be Winter again, she’d kill him.

‘Dawn?’ It wasn’t Winter. No way. ‘Dawn?’

The voice was familiar, though. Not a stranger. Reluctantly, she climbed out of the bath and towelled
herself dry. Wrapping herself in a dressing gown, she made her way downstairs. The knock again, louder this time. He’s been round the side, she thought. And seen the light in the bathroom window.

She put the chain on the door and opened it. Through the gap, she could see a figure silhouetted against the street lights. He had boots on and shiny leathers. He was cradling a helmet.

‘Andy?’

‘I knew you were in.’

‘What’s the matter? What is it?’ For a moment she thought he must have had an accident.

‘Just fancied a chat.’ He flashed her an uncertain smile. ‘Can I come in?’

She didn’t know what to say. They’d had a drink on a couple of occasions, it was true, but that hardly qualified for a full-on relationship. What on earth possessed him to turn up so late like this?

She pulled the dressing gown more tightly around herself. It wasn’t that cold with the door open but she knew she was shivering. Pathetic, she told herself. I’m being pathetic.

She slipped off the chain and opened the door. Corbett gave her a nod and stepped round her as she shut the door behind him. He smelled of fresh air and new leather.

‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

He waited in the chaos of the lounge at the front while she boiled water in the kettle. He must have put the television on because she could hear the round-up of the day’s World Cup scores at the end of the BBC news.

‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘As it comes.’

He was sitting on the tiny sofa, stiff as a board. He’d moved all her magazines up to one end and found a nest for his helmet amongst the laundry she’d been meaning
to dump in the washing machine. The sight of her thong wound in with assorted knickers and tops brought the colour to her face.

‘You hungry? Want anything to eat?’

Corbett shook his head. He still hadn’t looked up at her. In fact he’d barely moved.

‘No, thanks. Sorry to barge in like this.’

She began to tell him it didn’t matter but he held up a hand. He wanted to pick her brains, get one or two things off his chest.

‘About what?’

‘Faraday.’

‘What about him?’

She passed him the coffee and at last he looked up at her. His face was drained of all expression. She’d never seen such dead eyes.

‘He’s a disgrace,’ he said softly. ‘The man shouldn’t be let anywhere near a major crime.’

‘What makes you say that?’

The question, innocent enough, set him off. He told her about Davidson, about going to London, about the intelligence stuff he’d put together with the help of old mates. He told about the interview he’d done and the conclusions he’d drawn. He’d got Davidson by the bollocks, worked the whole thing out, saved the inquiry trillions in overtime, and now, as a thank you, Faraday had put him on house-to-house. The man, he said again, was a disgrace. He had no experience, no proper grip. He played everything by the book. He was ignoring a lead other governors would have given their eye teeth for. He was terrified of stepping outside the rules.

‘Really?’ Dawn had her own quarrels with Faraday but would never have accused him of over-respect for his bosses. On the contrary, the bloody man was forever going his own sweet way. ‘He’s new to Major Crimes. It’s a big challenge.’

‘Yeah, and wasted on people like him. In the Met, I’d
give him a week, maybe two, then they’d find him something more suitable. School crossings, if he was lucky. You want to know what I really think? I think he’s got something on Willard.’

‘And Willard protects him? That’s daft. Willard wouldn’t protect anyone he didn’t think was doing their job.’

‘Yeah, unless he had no choice.’

‘You’re being paranoid. You really are. You ought to watch yourself on that bike.’

‘Yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?’ He stared at her and for a split second she saw something in his face that made her feel deeply uncomfortable.

‘Joke?’ she said. ‘Listen, I sympathise, I really do. I don’t know what you expected down here but it’s obviously not working out. It happens sometimes, we all know that, but you just have to ride with the knocks. Blokes like Faraday are doing their best, just like the rest of us. We may not be as cool as the guys you’re used to, and most of the jobs are pretty crappy if you want the truth, but at least you’ve got something half-decent for a change.’

‘Yeah, and look what’s happening. Maybe he’s just trying to string it out. This Davidson’s well-sus, believe me. He’s a hundred per cent totally in the frame and we haven’t even rattled his cage yet. So how do you explain that?’

‘Faraday has a strange way of doing things sometimes.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Yeah, but it may not be the way it looks. You think he’s lost interest but often it’s the reverse. You ought to talk to some of the other guys. Bev Yates is good on Faraday, reads him like a book.’

‘He’s another one.’

‘Who?’

‘Yates. Should have been pensioned off years ago. If he
bangs on about bloody football again, I’ll fucking throttle him.’

‘You
are
getting paranoid.’

‘You really think so?’ His voice sank to a whisper and he began to knot and unknot his hands, staring down at the carpet, avoiding Dawn’s eyes. She gazed at him for a moment, wondering what really lay behind this strange visit. Was he lonely? Was it as simple as that? Or did career frustration do strange things to you? She sat down beside him, clearing a space for herself. When she put an arm around him, she realised he was crying.

‘Andy? What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Tell me.’ She could feel him trembling through the thick leathers.

He shook his head, then began to wipe his nose on the back of his hand.

Dawn pulled a Kleenex from a box on the floor.

‘Here.’

He looked at the Kleenex, his eyes glazed, then took a deep breath.

‘I can’t hack this, you know, I really can’t. I thought I could but I can’t.’

‘Hack what?’ Dawn waited for an answer. ‘Andy?’

‘This. Us. The job. Everything. Sometimes, some mornings, I wake up and I’m fucking superman. Other times, like now, I can’t get a single thing straight. You want the truth, it’s all just falling to pieces.’

‘What is?’

‘Every bloody thing.’

Dawn smiled at him, and touched his face. The news that someone else was as confused and bewildered as her was a huge relief.

‘Things work out,’ she said softly. ‘In the end, they do, I promise.’

‘Yeah? You really think that?’ It was a little boy’s question, voiced through a blur of tears.

Dawn gave him the Kleenex. She had some vodka next door. She’d fix up a couple of drinks. She’d put some music on, nothing hectic, and they could just chill out on the sofa. There was no pressure, no deadlines, no crimes to solve, just the two of them. Whatever else he wanted to get off his chest, she was here to listen.

She slipped off the sofa and eased the side zips on his boots. When she glanced up at him, he was trying to force a smile.

‘OK?’ she said.

The video had long come to an end. Faraday stood at the big glass doors, nursing his third cup of coffee. Down the road, queues were forming round the block for one of the clubs by the pier.

Eadie Sykes was folded into a corner of the sofa, her knees tucked beneath her chin. Faraday studied her for a moment. Behind the laughter and the repartee, he’d just glimpsed an altogether different woman.

‘Your dad fought in Crete? 1941? He was part of all that?’