“So where’s the father?”
“Trudy’s dad? Christ knows. His name’s Gallagher but I can’t remember ever meeting him. Mist’s real name is Marlene, by the way, and there are blokes in the job still call her that. Drives her mad.”
“So why Misty?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Go on.”
Winter shook his head, telling him it didn’t matter, but Suttle was insistent and Winter finally gave in, recounting another party trick Misty used to pull. The story revolved around Misty’s chest, of which she was extremely proud, and Winter had got to the bit where Misty removed her top when he became aware of a tall, striking figure in a tight red skirt and high leather boots.
“You’re really fucking sad, Paul Winter.” She sank into the spare chair. “You know that?”
Trudy was unrecognisable. Last time Suttle had seen her, stumbling into the back of an ambulance in the middle of the night, she’d stepped out of a Salvation Army poster. Now, barely half a day later, she might have graced the cover of a fashion magazine. Suttle couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Coffee? Something to eat?” He was already on his feet.
“Latte. With tons of sugar. And one of them Danish pastries. No’ she was fumbling in her bag for a cigarette ‘make that two.”
With Suttle gone, Winter leaned forward across the table. Trudy catching him in mid story hadn’t embarrassed him in the slightest. Quite the reverse.
“How is she, then, that mum of yours?”
“Off her trolley. As usual.”
“Seeing lots of her, are you?”
“Not if I can help it. She’s pissed me off, if you want the truth. Seriously pissed me off.”
“Why’s that?”
Trudy didn’t answer. She lit the cigarette, and Winter watched her as she tipped her head back, expelling a long plume of blue smoke.
Trudy’s eyes had followed Suttle to the counter.
“What’s his name, then? Your mate?”
“Jimmy.” Winter was looking at her right hand. “What happened to your nails?”
“What?”
“Your nails? There and there?” He reached across. The nails on her index and ring fingers had been savagely trimmed. “Your new Scouse friends, was it? Fighting them off?”
“What are you on about?” Trudy rolled her eyes. She’d come here as a favour. Any more of this shit, and she’d be out the door.
“I’m trying to find out what happened, love. We’re on your side.”
“Yeah?” She was watching Suttle again, weaving his way back through the tables with a coffee and a plate of pastries. “Is he local then, your mate?”
Winter ignored the question. He wanted to know what had happened last night. Trudy had been the subject of an assault. It was Winter’s job to find out how and why. Doing it over coffee was one way. There were others.
“That’s a threat.” She moved her bag to make a space for the pastries. “I don’t do threats.”
“It’s not a threat. I’m just telling you the way it is.”
“That’s my business, ain’t it?”
“Wrong, love. Last night made it ours.”
Trudy ignored him. The smile was for Suttle.
“Mr. Grumpy here says you’re local. That right?”
“Yeah.” Suttle nodded. “Sugar?”
“Three.” She pushed the cup towards him. “Where d’you live then? Somewhere nice?”
“Petersfield,” Winter grunted. “And he’s married.”
“Bollocks am I.” Suttle grinned at her. “Has he asked you about last night yet?”
“Yeah, and I told him to fuck off so don’t you start.”
“Can’t have been nice, though, can it? Dr. Dre’s crap enough with your clothes on. Naked, trussed up like a fucking turkey, you wouldn’t have a brain left.”
In spite of herself, Trudy began to laugh.
“That kind of shit’s for white kids wishing they were black. That’s even sadder than him.”
“Who?”
“Him. Uncle Paul.” She nodded at Winter. “He used to come sniffing round my mum. Still does when he’s desperate.”
“You never said, boss.” Suttle raised an eyebrow.
“You never asked.” Winter had developed an intense interest in the Gosport ferry. “And don’t jump to conclusions, either. Mist and I? We were never more than…”
“Good friends?” Trudy started to laugh again. “That’s Chinese for disappointment, ain’t it? That’s what my mum says. No time for all that good friends shit, not her…”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning she’ll shag anything if she thinks there’s money in it. And, believe me, I should fucking know.”
There was an abrupt silence while Trudy took a bite of pastry. Suttle glanced at Winter, then offered her a paper napkin from the sheaf in the middle of the table.
“Listen,” he began. “About last night…”
Trudy shook her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“There’s no way you’re gonna get me to talk about it,” she muttered. “So don’t even try.”
Winter ignored the warning.
“What about Dave Pullen, then?”
“Dave Pullen’s a wanker.”
“He says he hasn’t seen you for a couple of days.”
“No, and he won’t either. Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“Why’s that?”
“None of your business.”
Winter studied her a moment, then leaned forward and helped himself to the second pastry. When Trudy tried to get it back, he told her to behave herself.
“Listen, Trude, we’re trying to help you. Maybe you met the Scouse kids here, Gunwharf, Forty Below. Maybe it was Southsea, Guildhall Walk, some club or other. Tell you the truth, it doesn’t matter. All you need to know is it wasn’t you they were after, not the lovely Trudy. But then you’ve probably worked that out yourself.”
“Yeah?” For the first time she sounded uncertain.
Winter leaned forward again. The pastry was still intact.
“What you have to understand, Trude, is this. There’s a war on out there. The Scousers started it. They were the ones who…”
“But they were really nice. Really funny.”
“I’m sure they were. And then they tied you up and left you. You’re not telling me you’ve forgotten all that?” He paused, letting the question sink in. He had her attention now, he knew it.
“No,” she said at length. “I ain’t forgotten that.”
“And the other stuff?”
“What other stuff?”
“The bruises.” Winter touched his lower body. “Here and here. Where they whacked you. We had a torch, remember. You want to tell us how it happened?”
“No.”
“Not even if there’s a chance they’ll be back for more?”
“They won’t be.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“Hundred per cent certain?”
“Yeah.” She nodded bitterly. “One hundred fucking per cent.”
Winter looked at her for a long moment. Then he returned the second pastry to her plate.
“Here.” He tried to cheer her up with a smile. “Compliments of the house.”
“No, thanks.” She shook her head and began to get up. “You have it.”
Faraday found Eadie Sykes wolfing a sandwich in her office. She worked out of three small rooms above a solicitor’s practice in Hampshire Terrace. Faraday’s phone call from Whale Island had produced an invitation to share her take-out lunch but it was obvious at first glance that Faraday had arrived too late.
He was looking at the debris on the desk beside the PC, suddenly realising how hungry he was. Two pots of beans. A salad. Something with rice and little chunks of chorizo. All gone.
“Your boy,” Eadie said through a mouthful of cheese and sun-dried tomato. “You ought to feed him in the mornings.
”
“I would if he was ever around.”
Faraday found a perch for himself on a corner of the desk. J-J had been working part-time for Eadie for more than a year, first as a stills photographer on a Dunkirk anniversary film, and now as a researcher and cameraman on her latest production. Some weeks, he saw more of J-J’s boss than his son.
“So where is he?”
“Out.” She glanced at her watch. “Gone to look for more junkies.”
“He was doing that last week. And the week before.”
“Yeah, and the week before that. Finding them’s one thing, trying to do anything half sensible is quite another. They’re hopeless, all of them. Never out of bed. Never turn up. Never do what they’ve promised. Still, if it wasn’t a problem, we wouldn’t be doing a video about it, so I guess there’s an upside.”
She was a tall, big-boned woman with the grace and ease of a natural athlete. Too much Australian sun had wrecked her complexion but she cared as little for make-up as she bothered with fashion. Most days, she wore jeans and a sweatshirt. This morning’s was a souvenir from a cheap week in Fuerteventura.
Faraday swopped the desk for a chair in the corner, waiting for her to finish sweeping J-J’s debris into a black plastic sack. After Marta, he’d promised himself never again to make any assumptions about a woman, yet here he was, back in a relationship that felt all too real. Part of it, he’d concluded, was simple admiration. Never had he met anyone, male or female, so single-minded, so gutsy, so undaunted by whatever odds life stacked against her. Even Nick Hayder was a pale imitation of Eadie Sykes.
“So how’s it going?” Faraday nodded towards the PC but Eadie’s attention had been caught by a tiny television on the other side of the office.
“The UN have abandoned the border and Reuters are reporting explosions in Basra.” She shook her head, disgusted. “It’s definitely going to happen, Joe. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“I meant your video.”
“Ah…” Eadie looked briefly confused. “In that case I’d have to say slowly.”
“Because of the junkies?”
“Because of the absence of junkies.” She finally abandoned the television and turned to face him. “This is a beautiful city, my love. Smack, cocaine, whatever you fancy, it’s all there. Show me a junkie, one I can trust, I’ll write you a cheque.”
Faraday felt as if he’d been sharing this battle for an entire year. Eadie was determined to make the definitive video about hard-core drug abuse. She wanted to explore, in the bluntest possible terms, what narcotics actually did to young people. No gimmicks. No fancy camera angles. No homilies. Just a candid account, passed on to a generation who in Eadie’s opinion deserved a glimpse or two of the unvarnished truth.
To this end, with infinite patience, she’d stitched together a series of grants to fund the project. She’d twisted arms and bent ears. She’d knocked on doors and refused to take no for an answer. And slowly,
cheque by cheque, the sheer force of her conviction had begun to bring in the cash.
Contributions had come in from prominent Portsmouth businesses. The Hampshire Police Authority had made a grant. The city council’s Crime and Disorder Partnership had offered support. Other monies had turned up from God knows where until finally it fell to a govenment body the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership to match-fund the rest. With nearly 30,000 in the bank, Eadie Sykes was ready to shoot the documentary that would make her name. All she needed now was junkies.
“So where’s the boy?”
“Down in Old Portsmouth. He came across someone at the Students’ Union who thinks they’ve got the perfect answer. Happens every day. All you can do is say yes.”
“And J-J’s hopeful?”
“J-J’s always hopeful. Christ, you should know that. It’s your fault.”
This was as close as Eadie ever got to offering a compliment, and Faraday took it as such. J-J’s deafness had been with him since birth, and Faraday had spent most of the last two decades trying to reassure his son that it didn’t really matter. Blind, he’d have been in some difficulty. Lame, he’d be dependent on someone else to push him around. Deaf, he simply had to figure out other ways of hearing. Having a mother around would have helped but sadly that had never been possible.
“When’s he due back?”
“When he turns up. You know J-J. Give him half a chance, he’ll talk the guy to death.”
They both laughed. J-J had loaded standard British Sign Language with a repertoire all of his own and Faraday, on occasions too numerous to count, had watched him transform potentially embarrassing encounters into wild flurries of body language and laughter. For reasons he didn’t fully understand, his son had the gift of getting through, of using his smile and his eyes and those extraordinarily gawky limbs to do the work of his poor mute tongue. Had he not been handicapped, the boy would probably be earning a fortune selling real estate or double glazing. Thank God, Faraday often thought, for deafness.
“So who was this contact?”
“Her name’s Sarah. She knows a guy called Daniel Kelly. Heavily into smack.” Eadie was back in front of the television.
“Who?”
“Daniel Kelly. J-J thinks he’s a student, too.”
Daniel Kelly? Faraday tried hard to place the name but drew a blank. Eadie was still peering at the tiny screen.
“Blair’s banging on about a just war again.” She shook her head. “Can you believe that?”
J-J had the address written down. Chantry Court was a sought-after block of flats within sight of the cathedral. The parking space beneath the building was visible from the street and few of the residents had settled for less than a BMW. After weeks of nosing round squats, bed sits and chaotic student lets, J-J found it difficult to believe that his contact at the university had sent him here.
The speakerphone beside the locked front door controlled access to the flats. J-J checked his piece of paper again and pressed number 8. He counted to five, then held his tiny Sony cassette player to the microphone beneath the row of buttons. The tape played a prerecorded message from Eadie Sykes establishing the fact that the young man outside was deaf and dumb, and that he’d appreciate getting inside to meet the tenant. This message, repeated four times, was Eadie’s idea, one of the many bridges she’d thrown up between J-J and the realities of video pre-production.
J-J had his hand on the door. A tiny tremor told him he’d won access. Number 8 was on the first floor. A door at the end of the corridor was already open, a stooped figure silhouetted against the light from inside. He looked older than the usual student, mid twenties, maybe more.
“Sarah said you’d be round.” He stepped back. “Come in.”
The flat, though smaller than J-J had expected, was expensively furnished with chintzy covers on the plump armchairs, a big wide screen TV, and piles of books everywhere, many of them brand new. J-J stood before a water colour on the back wall. A livid sunset hung over a skyline he recognised: the tiny squat church steeple, the pitch of the neighbouring roofs, the gleam of the enveloping creek, the memory of curlews stalking the mud flats at low tide.
J-J glanced over his shoulder. Daniel was wearing stained corduroy trousers and a pink button-down shirt that hadn’t seen an iron for weeks. His head was unusually large, a cartoon head too big for its body, and there was a strange puffiness about his face. Discount the absence of bruises, and he might just have been in a fight.
Daniel plainly hadn’t a clue what to expect next.
J-J nodded at the picture on the wall, then mimed taking a photo, briefly touching his chest in ownership before clapping his hands. His enthusiasm for the water colour was all the more convincing for being genuine.
Daniel looked from one to the other, then came the beginnings of a smile.
“You know Bosham?”
J-J nodded at once. Lip-reading had been an early skill, the key that unlocked conversations like these.
From the depths of his denim
jacket he produced a single typed sheet he’d printed and photocopied weeks ago. Three briefs paragraphs set out the thinking behind the video.
Ambrym Productions wanted to explore the realities of drug-taking. They wanted to know how, and why, and where next. They wanted to get inside the heads of the people at the sharpest end and offer them the opportunity of sharing their experience.
The video was destined for schools all over the country. Kids would see it and make judgements of their own about the rights and wrongs of using drugs. Print material posters, teaching notes would complete the package.
Saying yes to J-J meant agreeing to a videotaped interview, an hour at the most. The questions would be straightforward. The interviewee would do most of the talking. No one was interested in point-scoring, or preaching, or any form of sensationalism. Was that too high a price for the good a video like this might do?
Daniel sank onto the sofa beside the audio stack and studied the single sheet of paper. When he finally looked up, his eyes were swimming behind the thick-rimmed glasses.
“You know Sarah well?”
J-J shook his head.
“But you liked her?”
J-J nodded. When his hands shaped an hourglass, Daniel at last managed a smile.
“She used to be my girlfriend.” He picked up J-J’s sheet again. “How do I know this is for real?”
J-J’s hand returned to his jacket. Eadie had given him a sheaf of business cards. He passed one across, miming a telephone call.
Daniel examined the card.
“I can keep this?”
J-J nodded.
“When do you need an answer?”
J-J touched his watch, then raised his hands, palms up, thumbs turned out. Can’t say.
“Soon?”
J-J gestured round, encompassing the entire room with a sweep of his arm. Then he mimed the camera, the lights, the microphone, the whole circus that would commit this man to videotape. Daniel looked up at him, watching the performance, saying nothing. Finally, J-J touched his watch again and pressed his hands together, a supplicatory gesture that the student seemed to understand.
“Very soon?” His eyes went back to the sheet. He read it for a second time, then put it to one side. Eadie’s card still lay on the arm of the sofa.
Cut To Black Page 6
