Free The Take by Graham Hurley Page A

chilli con carne. For once he hadn’t followed the recipe. He’d chopped up onions and garlic extra fine and sweated them in oil. He’d stirred in a spoonful of tomato purée and a daub or two of Marmite. He’d added the mincemeat, with plenty of pepper and salt. And only at the end, with Ruth at the table in the kitchen, had he realised that he’d forgotten to buy fresh chilli. Shielding the stove with his body, he’d made do with cayenne pepper, but that wasn’t the point. Chilli con carne without chilli? What kind of cook was he turning into?
    It was the third time this month Ruth had come over for dinner. After the loss of her husband and son, way back last year, he’d let a decent interval pass before trying to convert a strictly professional relationship into something slightly cosier, but to his surprise the transition had been painless.
    She’d slipped into his bed as easily as she’d slipped into his life. Sleeping together hadn’t been altogether successful – far from it – but they seemed to have settled on a relationship flexible and forgiving enough to make room for a sexual disappointment that had been obvious from the start. Faraday hadn’t been with a woman since the death of his wife, and nearly twenty-two years of bringing up his deaf son had done nothing to rid him of memories of the relationship which had shaped his life. As Ruth herself had put it, sleeping with Faraday was like a
ménage à quatre:
Joe, herself, J-J and the ghost of the long-dead Janna. Was it any kind of surprise that she no longer stayed over?
    Oddly enough, from where Faraday sat, it didn’t really matter. Ruth was as centred and fathomless as the day he’d first met her, doggedly pursuing his own conviction that an admirer of hers had been murdered, and nothing that had happened since had stripped her of any of the fascination she held for him. Mystery came as naturally to her as the clothes she wore – Indian cotton prints, baggy pantaloons – and she brought to his life a deep sense of challenge that he was quite unable to define.
    That’s maybe why it didn’t work in bed. The truly inner Ruth lay beyond the simple physical questions. Whichever key opened her lock, he was never quite able to find it, and as a consequence they’d slipped into a comfortable companionship, freed from either obligation or routine. Sometimes, like now, they’d see quite a lot of each other. Other months, when Faraday was even more preoccupied than usual, they might have time for no more than a phone call. When people asked him whether there was anyone special in his life, Faraday would answer yes. When they asked him if he was involved with anyone, he would, with some regret, shake his head.
    They were clearing away the plates when Faraday heard a squeal of brakes outside. He glanced at his watch. Nearly half-past ten. Ruth raised an eyebrow but he shrugged, making his way to the front door. A bulky figure in a grey suit was standing outside in the half light. Faraday thought he recognised him, but he couldn’t be sure.
    ‘Boss?’
    He was right. It was Paul Winter. Faraday stepped aside, inviting him in. It was obvious at once that Winter had been drinking.
    ‘D’you mind?’
    ‘Not at all. Something that can’t wait?’
    Winter laughed, a thin, mirthless chuckle.
    ‘Yeah. Sort of.’
    Ruth was still in the kitchen. Faraday did the introductions, but it was obvious that Winter wanted a private word. Faraday frowned. Years of history between the two men offered not the slightest clue for Winter’s visit. Was it work-related? Or had Winter something else in mind?
    Ruth was already hunting for her house keys. When Faraday offered to open another bottle, she shook her head.
    ‘I ought to be off,’ she said, ‘leave you two to it.’
    With Ruth gone, Faraday took Winter into the big sitting room. The last time Winter had been here was the night they’d been trying to crack Charlie Oomes. Winter had gone at him hammer and