Winter rang off and Faraday found himself still gazing at the number.
The reference to J-J had chilled him to the bone. Given this morning's conversation with Eadie Sykes, there were a thousand and one reasons why the boy might have got himself into trouble, but how, exactly, had he crossed paths with the likes of Paul Winter?
'Sheriff…?'
Faraday spun round. Joyce was back. There was a new carton of semi-skimmed on the shelf beside the electric kettle and she was already reaching for her coat.
'The Pembroke takes you through town.' She grinned at him. 'You mind giving this lady a lift?'
Faraday's Mondeo was in the car park. There was a queue of vehicles waiting for clearance at the security barrier and the saloon rolled to a halt behind a minibus full of mate lots Faraday glanced sideways at Joyce. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Tumbril.
'How's that husband of yours?'
'History. I binned the marriage a couple of months back.'
'Really?' The last time Faraday checked, Joyce had been married to a uniformed Inspector in the Southampton BCU, a dour Aberdonian with a roving eye and a passion for fitness routines. 'What happened?'
'One probationer too many, I guess. Plus I wasn't up to serial child molesting, not at the time. Strange thing about cancer, sheriff, it does nothing for your sense of humour. Was I harsh, do you think?
Wishing him God speed?'
Her husband, she told him, had been worse than useless when tests had confirmed the oncologist's suspicions. The Royal South Hants had found her a bed within days but he'd barely managed a couple of visits over the fortnight she'd been in hospital. At the time, she'd believed his excuses about the pressure of work. Only later, thanks to a neighbour, did she discover that he'd moved the latest conquest into the marital home. Strictly as an act of compassion.
'Nineteen-year-old called Bethany. Needed somewhere quiet to study for her probationer's exams. Poor waif. But hey' she flipped down the sun visor and studied her lip gloss in the mirror on the back 'who needs husbands?'
They were through the barrier now, and crossing the bridge beside the ferry port. Faraday wanted to know where she was living.
'Home. Just like always.'
'And Neil?'
'You tell me, honey. He phones me up, writes me letters, sends huge bunches of flowers, tries to explain what a big mistake he'd made. Me?
I tell him to go to hell. Most times we get one pass at life. This lady's been given two. You think I'm gonna waste me on that bastard again? The nerve of the guy.'
She shook her head, gazing out at the traffic. Beside the roundabout at the end of the motorway into the city, a handful of students were milling around beneath a big hand-lettered placard in what looked like
an impromptu demonstration. The placard read STOP THE WAR! 6 P.M. GUILDHALL SQUARE.
'There's another shit head.' Joyce was fumbling for her lipstick.
'Who?'
'Boy George. Can you believe that man? And can you credit my dickhead countrymen for voting the guy in? Not that he even fucking won in the first place.'
Faraday smiled to himself, reaching for the car radio. This was a new Joyce, feistier than ever, her raw enjoyment of life edged by something close to anger. Maybe she was right. Maybe a glimpse of oblivion, your own life suddenly on the line, robbed voter apathy of its charms.
A pundit on Radio Four was speculating on the lengths Saddam might go to in Iraq. Oil wells were already blazing around Basra. Might he also torch the northern oilfields?
'You feel comfortable with all this?' Faraday gestured out at the students.
'The war or the protest?'
'The war.'
'Hell, no. But you know something? The problem isn't what folk like Bush get us into. It isn't even all those little kids you're going to see in the wreckage once we've bombed the be jesus out of the place.
No, the real problem is the fact that us Americans actually believe all this shit. We're doing it for liberty and freedom. We're killing Iraqis to make them better human beings. Believe me, sheriff, when the world comes to an end, it'll be the Americans who pull the trigger. And you know something else? It'll be in all our best interests. You heard it first from me, Joe. Takes a Yank to know a Yank.' She applied a final dab of powder from a small compact, then snapped it shut. 'How about you?'
'I loathe it.'
'I meant your love life.'
'What?' Faraday brought the car to a halt again. The directness of this woman never ceased to amaze him. Even Eadie Sykes was a novice compared to Joyce.
'Just wondering, honey. Last time I had the pleasure of your company, you were shacked up with a Spanish lady. Am I right?'
'Yes. Sort of.'
'Still together?'
'No.'
'Someone else?'
'Yes.'
'Serious?'
'Straightforward. We laugh a lot.'
'You love her?'
'That's a big question.'
'You living together?'
'No.'
'She got a place of her own? Somewhere private?'
'Yes.'
'Is she married? Tied up with someone else?'
'Absolutely not.' He looked across at her. 'What is this?'
'Nothing, honey. Just curious, that's all. You know something else about the Big C? It gives you the right to ask the hard questions.'
She paused a moment, staring out at the lunchtime shoppers dodging through the stalled traffic. 'Mind if I pop another one?'
'Not at all.'
'You're sure?'
'Absolutely.'
'OK.' She reached forward and tapped the receipt Faraday had left on the dashboard. 'How come you're having room service at the Sally Port Hotel if this relationship's so great?'
Eadie Sykes found Martin Eckersley bent over a copy of the Independent when she finally made it to the Cafe Parisien. She was ten minutes late and he was already on page 4.
She pulled up a seat and gave the proffered menu the briefest of glances.
'Three-egg omelette and fries.' She nodded at the empty cup beside the paper. 'Cappuccino to start.'
'I thought you were on a diet?'
'Never. We're talking four miles a day at the moment, and that's before I even break a sweat. Girl's got to refuel otherwise she falls over.' She grinned at him. 'How's you?'
'Busy.'
He began to tell her about the Leigh Park death, a woman in her mid forties with a history of mental disturbance and a fondness for cheap vodka. She'd been found dead in bed with an empty bottle of painkillers on the pillow and no sign of a note. Eadie let him air his worries about the possibility of interference by some other party, then leant forward, touching him lightly on the hand.
'Daniel Kelly…?' she said.
