The Take by Graham Hurley Page A

him drive in.
    ‘Outside. In the street.’ Winter was trying to find the raspberry jam. ‘How’s tricks?’
    ‘Fine. I feel fine.’
    ‘Great.’ He unscrewed the jam jar, waiting for the toast to pop up. ‘Lovely day.’
    ‘I know. I’ve been out in the garden. Shall I get the other chair out?’
    ‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘I thought we might take a little drive.’
    ‘
Drive?
’ Joannie looked startled. ‘Together, you mean?’
    ‘Yeah. Just you and me.’ He glanced up at her, as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘How about the New Forest?’
    Faraday had just put the phone down on Rick Stapleton when Joyce finally appeared with a video machine. He looked up, smiling, as she wheeled the trolley into the office.
    ‘Result,’ he muttered. ‘On the Donald Duck job.’
    Joyce, unbidden, was sorting out the Venetian blinds. A hot morning had developed into a flawless afternoon, and the office was flooded with sunshine.
    ‘Young lad came up from Traffic this morning,’ she murmured. ‘I left you a note.’
    ‘Did you?’
    Faraday was looking at the chaos of his desk, paperwork stacked everywhere. Instinctively, he began to sift through the biggest pile.
    ‘It’s on top,’ Joyce said drily, ‘where I left it.’
    Faraday found the note. Mark Barrington, the motorcycle patrolman who’d been first on the scene at Larkrise Avenue, had paid a visit.
    ‘What did he want?’
    ‘You, poppet.’
    Faraday stared up at her.
Poppet?
Joyce ignored him.
    ‘It’s to do with that pile of junk Vanessa was driving. The Fiesta.’
    ‘It was her mother’s, not hers.’
    ‘Sure. Point is, Accident Investigation and the mechanic who went over it got their heads together and they figure no way was she to blame. The Fiesta had all but stopped. The brakes weren’t brilliant, but they did what they were supposed to do.’
    ‘And Prentice?’
    ‘Prentice was a no-no.’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘A no-no. He wasn’t about to tell me
anything
about Prentice. Guy says he needs to talk to you. Hence my little note.’
    She did a little curtsy, and left the office. Moments later she was back with two boxes full of video tapes, her chin resting uncertainly on the top.
    ‘This may take a while,’ she said. ‘We ought to be thinking comfort here.’
    Out she went again, this time returning with a portable air fan. Plugging it in, she cleared a corner of Faraday’s desk and switched it on.
    ‘Health and safety,’ she explained, bending to insert the first of the cassettes. ‘Remote’s in the out-tray. Second button down starts the action. Enjoy.’
    She left the office for the last time, closing the door behind her, and Faraday was left wondering whether she’d meant the fan as a joke, realising that he simply didn’t know.
    Winter and his wife drove west, towards the New Forest. The traffic was light for midsummer, but in a rare concession Winter kept his speed below eighty, modest enough for Joannie to be able to enjoy her favourite cassette. Winter had never really fathomed the appeal of Celine Dion, but the last thing he wanted was a squabble about their choice of music. If she wanted to listen to
The Reason
three times on the trot, so be it.
    North of Southampton, Winter stopped for fuel, returning to the car with a bagful of sweets. The sight of the Werther’s Originals brought a smile to Joannie’s face.
    ‘Must be Christmas,’ she murmured, tucking them into the glove box. ‘I should be ill more often.’
    Heading west again, she began to talk about what lay ahead, practical steps they might have to take, decisions about diet and sleeping arrangements, and maybe a good look at their respective wills.
    ‘Sleeping arrangements?’ Winter wouldn’t take his eyes off the road.
    ‘It’ll get difficult, Paul. I was reading this article. You don’t want to be awake all night, running round after me. You know what you’re like if you don’t get your full ration.’
    ‘We’re talking sleep here?’
    Winter