"What do you think, then?" He glanced sideways at Winter. "About the girl?"
"I think we find her."
"And then what?" The grin again. "We tie her down?"
Ashburton Road was one of a series of streets which led north from the commercial heart of Southsea. Back in the nineteenth century these imposing three-storey terraced properties would have housed naval families and wealthy businessmen, the social foundations of fashionable seaside living, but successive tides had washed over the city since, and the results were all too obvious. There wasn't a house in this street that hadn't been overwhelmed by multi-occupation. Properties spared by the Luftwaffe had surrendered to three generations of Pompey landlords.
Dave Pullen lived at the top of a house towards the end of the street.
When two attempts to raise him through the speakerphone failed, Winter sent Suttle up the fire escape at the back. Seconds later, he was leaning over the rusting balustrade.
"There's a note," he yelled. "He'll be back in half an hour."
"Who's it to?"
"Doesn't say."
They waited in the car, parked on a double yellow at the end of the road. As curious as ever, Suttle wanted to know about Pullen, and about Bazza Mackenzie.
"Pullen's a knobber," Winter said at once. "Complete waste of space.
Could have made a decent foot baller once but pissed it up against the wall."
"You're into football?" This was news to Suttle, who was a Saints fan.
"God forbid, son, but it helps to pretend in this city. Those with a brain aren't a problem but all the rest think about is bloody football.
Sad but true."
"So how good was this bloke?"
"Pullen? Half decent, certainly. Used to turn out for Waterlooville before they merged with Havant."
"That's the Doc Martens League." Suttle was impressed. "What position?"
"Come again?"
"Where did he play? On the field?"
"Ah…" Winter frowned. "Up front, I suppose. I know he was forever scoring. That's how he got his nickname. Or partly, anyway."
"Pull 'em?"
"Exactly. On the field, he just blew up. Too many fags. Too many bevvies. Too much stuff up his nose. With women, though, it stuck.
Dave Pullen. Screwing for England. Young Trudy should have known better."
"Maybe he talks a good shag."
"Doubt it. I don't know about the rest of him but there's fuck all between his ears. Not that Trude's any intellectual, but then at eighteen you wouldn't be, would you?"
Suttle was watching a man of uncertain age weaving towards them along the pavement. He had a Londis bag in one hand and a can of Special Brew in the other. Scarlet-faced, glassy-eyed, he paused beside the car, raising the can in a peaceable salute when Suttle told him to fuck off.
"About this Bazza, then." He'd closed the window.
"Bazza…?" Winter glanced across at him, then settled back in the passenger seat, a smile on his face, the pose of a man savouring the meal of his dreams. "Bazza Mackenzie is the business," he said softly.
"Bazza Mackenzie is the closest this city gets to proper crime. It's blokes like Bazza make getting up in the morning a real pleasure. How many people could you say that about? Hand on heart?"
"He comes from round here?"
"Home grown, through and through. The authentic Pompey mush."
"You ever nick him?"
"Twice, in the early days." Winter nodded. "D and D both times, once on the se afront broad daylight, necked too many lagers on the pier.
The other time late at night, club in Palmerston Road, well shan tied on Stella and bourbon. Bazza couldn't see a fight without getting stuck in. If we were involved, so much the better."
"Lots of bottle, then?"
"Lunatic. Complete lunatic. I knew the woman he married pretty girl, bright too and she couldn't believe what she'd taken on. Total head case, she used to tell me. Knows absolutely no fear."
"Big guy? Physically?"
"Small' Winter shook his head 'small and up for it. But that's always the way, isn't it? You ever notice that, looking at a crowd of them, itching to take you on? It's always the small ones you have to watch.
Maybe they've got more to prove. Christ knows."
Suttle had his eyes on the rear-view mirror. The drunk was rounding the corner, swaying gently as he debated whether to cross the road at the end.
"And Pullen and this Bazza are big mates?"
"Mates, certainly. They go back forever. But then that's the way it works in the city. Same school, same pubs, same women. They ran with the 6.57, both of them. That was Bazza's major career move, took him to the big time."
The 6.57 had been a bunch of hooligans, Pompey's finest, taking the first train out every other Saturday and exporting a very special brand of football violence to rival grounds all over the country. According to Winter, it was the 6.57 who'd pioneered the major import of serious drugs into the city.
' '89' He grinned. "Summer of love. These guys had been kicking the shit out of each other for Christ knows how long, then suddenly they're blowing kisses and dancing together in the nightclubs and we're wondering what the fuck's going on."
"What was going on?"
"Ecstasy. They were bringing it in by the truckload, scoring from the rival firms in London. Some of the raves they organised that summer were awesome. Thousands of kids, out of their skulls. Law and order-wise, we never had a prayer. Made you proud, though, just being there. The girl he married was right. Blokes like Bazza, completely fucking reckless, really put the city on the map."
"Nice."
"Yeah. Didn't last, though. They took to cocaine after that and it all got ugly again."
"He stuck to cocaine? No smack?"
"Cocaine and rave drugs, plus amphetamine if you fancied it. Bazza had the odd dabble with heroin but much less than we thought at the time.
Wrong image. Smack's for losers."
Suttle was still watching the mirror. He touched Winter lightly on the arm.
"Tall bloke? Skinny?"
Winter glanced over his shoulder, then nodded.
"Let him get to the front door," he murmured, 'then we'll say hello."
But Pullen didn't go to the front door. Instead, he walked straight past the car and began to climb the first flight of steps on the fire escape. Winter watched him for a moment or two, wondering about the limp, then got out of the car. By the time Pullen realised he was being followed, he was nearly at the top.
"Dave. Long time." Winter was out of breath. "This is DC Suttle.
We'd appreciate a word."
"Sure. Why not?" Pullen tried to head down again. Winter blocked his way.
"Upstairs," he said. "In your place."
"Why not here? Or down there?"
"Because I'd prefer a bit of privacy. And because I'm bloody knackered."
Pullen looked suddenly haunted. He had a narrow, bony face, thinning hair that badly needed a trim, yellowing teeth. His sunken eyes were bloodshot and when he made a big show of checking his watch he had trouble keeping his hand steady. If this guy was an advert for the drugs biz, thought Suttle, then there must be better ways of earning a living. Give him a year or two, and a can of Special Brew, and he'd be just another item of street furniture.
"Well, old son…?" Winter was still playing the jovial cop.
"No way." Pullen shook his head. "You ain't got the right."
"No? You'd prefer I popped round the corner for a warrant? Left Jimmy here to keep an eye on you?"
"You can't do that."
"Try me."
"What do you want to know?"
"I want to know about Trudy Gallagher. And about what happened last night. Dave, you know the score. Easiest says we get it over with."
He nodded up towards Pullen's peeling front door. "Half an hour max and we're gone."
Pullen was doing his best to figure something out. A late night and untold helpings of unlawful substances cl
early didn't help. At length, another shake of the head. Winter reached forward, brushing the dandruff off the shoulders of his jacket. Humiliation always talked louder than threats.
"Nice leather, Dave." He nodded towards the door again. "After you?"
The flat was three rooms with a tiny kitchen jigsawed into the back of the lounge. Potentially, the place had a lot of potential south-facing, a hint of a view but Dave Pullen clearly preferred living in the dark.
Winter wanted to pull the curtains back and throw open the windows. He wanted to invest a bob or two in a nice air freshener and a bunch of flowers. Instead, he sank into the only armchair, wondering how many roll-ups it took to recreate the authentic stink of prison life. Maybe this flat was an exercise in nostalgia. Maybe Pullen couldn't survive without the memory of B Wing.
"So where is she? That nice Trudy?"
"Ain't got a clue."
"You're lying, Dave. She was in that doss house of yours, well fucking kippered. You'd have known about that. They'd have told you."
"Who says?"
"Me. These Scouse kids are in the wind-up business. They send little messages. That's what she was, Dave: a message."
Avoiding Winter's gaze, Pullen limped across to the kitchen and opened a drawer. Two fat tablets needed half a glass of water from the tap.
"Headache?"
"Migraine."
"Same thing." Winter paused while Pullen swallowed the tablets. "So tell me about the Scousers. They weren't gentle, you know. Or has she told you that already?"
Pullen didn't answer. Suttle was over in the shadows, inspecting a headline Sellotaped to the wall. The back page had been ripped from The News, the city's daily paper.
"Super Blues?" Suttle queried.
Pullen turned on him, a spectral presence in the gloom.
"You got a problem with that?"
"Yeah."
"Like what?"
"Like Pompey are shit. Half the fucking team are on a bus pass."
Watching from the armchair, Winter started to laugh. He loved this boy, loved him. There was a kind of madness in so much of what he did.
Like Winter himself, he pushed and pushed until something snapped.
"Shit?" Pullen was outraged. "Top of the Nationwide? Top all fucking season? How does that work, then?"
"You'll find out, mate. If you ever get to the Premiership."
"So what are you, then?"
"Saints."
"Scummer?" Pullen started to laugh. "Well, fuck me. No wonder you end up in the Filth."
Winter struggled to his feet. There was a pile of twenty-four-can slabs of Stella wedged against the open door, doubtless trophies from a Cherbourg booze run. Stepping carefully round the tinnies, he disappeared for a moment or two. Seconds later, he was back with something black and boxy in his hand. When he switched on the overhead light, Suttle recognised it as a car radio.
"State of the art, Dave." Winter examined the back. "And security marked."
"It's legit."
"I'm sure it is. What about the rest?" Winter caught Suttle's eye and nodded towards the door. "Only we've been having this problem with vehicle breaks. Figures have gone through the roof. You wouldn't believe the grief it's giving our Performance Manager."
Suttle was back with a cardboard box. After the first five car radios, he gave up counting.
"Worth a bit, eh Dave?" It was Winter again. "No wonder you never invited us in."
"She hasn't been here."
"I don't believe you."
"It's true. Not since a couple of days back."
"Then where is she?"
"Fuck knows."
"You've got a mobile number?"
"She never answers."
"You had a row or something? Bit of a tiff?"
Silence.
Winter consulted his watch, then settled back in the armchair, steepled his fingers over the swell of his belly, and closed his eyes.
Pullen stirred.
"Her fucking fault," he muttered. "Little slag."
"What did she do to you, Dave?" Winter's eyes were still closed. "Ask for a decent conversation?"
"Bollocks to that," Pullen said hotly. "She can talk her fucking gob off when she wants to. Doesn't take much. Couple of Smirnoffs in Forty Below and you can help your fucking self."
Forty Below was a cafe-bar and nightclub complex in Gunwharf Quays, immensely popular for chilling out.
"Was that the way they did it?"
"Who?"
"Your Scouser friends? Tenner across the bar and a car ride when she's up for it? Pop round to Dave's place? Listen to some music? Is that what happened?"
"Haven't a clue."
"Not worried? Not the least concerned? They're taking the piss, Dave.
They're telling you you're not up to it any more. Whatever's yours, they're helping themselves. And if you think it begins and ends with young Trudy then you're even more stupid than you look."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bollocks you don't. It's not about fanny, you know it's not. It's business, Dave, and we're not talking nicked fucking car radios. I don't know how much charlie Bazza trusts you with these days but something tells me your dealing days might be over. Trudy was a redundancy notice, Dave. These kids are telling you you're past it.
You with me? Or am I going too fast?"
"You're off your head."
"Am I?" Winter got to his feet again. He beckoned Pullen closer. "We paid these kids a visit last night, Dave. I won't bore you with the details but we came away with more Stanley knives than you'd ever believe. You know all those rumours about local dealers getting slapped around? Kidnapped? Cut? All true, Dave."
Pullen retreated towards the kitchen. He didn't want to hear any of this. Winter, warming up now, pinned him in a corner.
"You've got a choice, Dave, you and your mates. My boss wants these kids out of the city. I dare say Bazza does, too. We can either go the official route, in which case you'll be giving me a statement, telling me everything you know. Or you can sort something out on your own behalf. Either way, me and Jimmy here are having these." Winter picked up one of the radios. "We've got a whole squad on vehicle break-ins. Operation Cobra. You might have seen it in the paper.
Shall I spread the good word? Tell my mates you've got the beers in?"
Winter let the message register, then told Suttle to repack all the radios in the cardboard box. A visit to the tip that Pullen used as a bedroom produced more booty, enough to fill a pillowslip. On his way out of the flat, back in the sunshine at the top of the fire escape, Winter made Pullen write out Trudy Gallagher's mobile number. He studied it a moment, then folded it into his pocket.
"Best to Bazza, eh?" He gave Pullen a little punch on the shoulder, picked up the pillowslip, and followed Suttle down towards the street.
Mid morning, the conference with Willard over, Faraday followed Brian Imber's Volvo estate out of the parking lot at the back of the Kingston Crescent police station. At the start of the motorway, Imber indicated left, leaving the roundabout for the Continental Ferry Port. North of the port complex lay a cluster of naval establishments known locally as Whale Island. At the far end of the causeway connecting the island to the mainland, Imber coasted to a halt at the red and white barrier. A squaddie approached both cars, an assault rifle slung from his neck.
Faraday wound down his window. Imber had already given him a pass but Faraday had yet to open the envelope. When he did so, he found himself looking at a recent head and shoulders shot taken for an out-of-county inquiry. It showed a grizzled white male in his mid forties with a mop of greying curly hair. The expression on his face, at first glance, gave nothing away but the few people who knew him well would have wondered about the little creases around the eyes. This was a man trying to gauge exactly what awaited him next. Small wonder.
The squaddie glanced at the pass, checked the image, and then waved Faraday through.
Imber was in the nearby car park. Far
aday brought the Mondeo to a halt beside him, pocketing the pass. Imber nodded towards a low, brick-built structure a couple of hundred metres away. Beyond lay the harbour and the naval dockyard.
"Welcome to Tumbril." Imber was enjoying this. "It's a bit cramped, I'm afraid, but we've done our best."
The building belonged to the Regulating School, the establishment charged with training the navy's police force. A temporary arrangement with the Admiralty, financed from the Tumbril budget, paid for an open-plan office on the south side of the building which was normally used as a lecture theatre. Attached to this was a smaller interview room, which now housed the inquiry's ever-growing archive. Carefully labelled files crowded a wall full of shelves. There were also three battered filing cabinets, all fitted with heavy-duty locks.
Imber was explaining about the rest of the security arrangements. There were double locks on the main door, accessible by code and swipe card, plus the eight-foot barbed-wire fence that surrounded the entire site.
At Nick Hayder's insistence, the office was regularly swept for bugs, the cleaner had been security-checked, and every member of the five-strong team had signed a binding undertaking never to discuss the operation with anyone else. In terms of paranoia, thought Faraday, this operation was in a class of its own.
"You think we've gone over the top?" Imber was watching him carefully.
"Just a bit."
"You saw Nick this morning? Unconscious? Legs a mess? Crushed pelvis?"
"You're telling me that was related?"
"I'm telling you we took every conceivable precaution and someone still managed to switch his lights out. Whether that's just coincidence, who can say? All we've tried to do is give ourselves a bit of privacy."
From the adjoining office came the sound of a door opening, and then the bustle of heavy footsteps. Moments later, Faraday found himself looking at a familiar figure: low-cut dress, huge bosoms, thick gloss lipstick, long purple nails flecked with glitter, and beneath the mountainous body a pair of shapely legs that had never failed to take him by surprise.
"Joyce."
"Sheriff."
"You're part of this?" Faraday gestured round.
"Too right I am. Archivist, doughnut supplier, hangover cures and light maintenance. Plus I deal with the ruder phone calls. Unless you're nice to me, you get a spanking." She grinned at him. "Did I hear yes to coffee?"
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