Cut To Black

by Hurley, Graham

  “But the interview happened, didn’t it?” he enquired at last.

  “Yes.”

  “So why did Kelly say yes? What made the difference?”

  Hartley Crewdson intervened for the second time. In his opinion, this line of questioning was definitely prejudicial, planting suggestions in J-J’s path, luring him into self-incrimination. Faraday was looking at the ceiling. Twenty-five years of policing told him the solicitor hadn’t got a prayer.

  Stapleton barely spared Crewdson a glance. Instead, he once again asked Faraday to pass the protest on to his son. What did J-J think?

  J-J signed that he was OK with Stapleton’s questions. He was here to explain exactly what had happened. Absolutely no problem.

  “So answer the question. Why did Kelly agree to do the interview?”

  J-J signed that he’d agreed to buy drugs for Kelly. Faraday turned to Stapleton.

  “He says Kelly asked him a favour.”

  “What favour?”

  Faraday glanced back at J-J, watching him mime a syringe in his arm again, realising that his fatherly attempts to shield his son from these remorseless questions were doomed. One way or another, J-J was determined to share the truth about yesterday’s events. What might happen as a consequence didn’t appear to trouble him in the least.

  Stapleton was looking at Faraday. He wanted clarification on the last answer. Faraday sat back in his chair, suddenly aware of what guilt must feel like. Any more of this and he’d be facing a charge himself. Perverting the course of justice.

  “He’s telling you that Kelly asked him to buy drugs.”

  “That’s not what you said just now.”

  “I know. You wanted a clarification. I’ve just supplied it. OK?”

  For the first time, Stapleton permitted himself a small, tight-lipped smile. It was, Faraday realised at once, a warning.

  “Ask your son whether he agreed to buy the drugs.”

  Faraday signed the question. J-J nodded, slowing the signing, spelling it out, trying to cut his father out of the loop.

  “Did Kelly tell you where to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “He gave you money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was the address?”

  Lip-reading the question, J-J hand-signed Pennington Road. Faraday obliged with a translation.

  “Number?”

  ‘30.”

  “And you bought the drugs?”

  “They took the money off me.”

  “Who’s “they”?”

  “Two guys.”

  “Names?”

  “One was called Terry.”

  “How much money did they take off you?”

  “90.”

  “And gave you the drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s robbery. Why didn’t you come to us?”

  There was a silence while J-J tried to think of an answer. Faraday glanced across at Crewdson. To his surprise, the solicitor motioned for him not to intervene. Alan Moffat stirred, taking over from Stapleton. After he’d established that J-J had returned to Hampshire Terrace without the drugs, he asked about Eadie Sykes.

  “She didn’t know about the drugs,” J-J signed.

  “But she knew about the state of Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she still went ahead with the interview?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you happy with that?”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then J-J shook his head.

  “Why not?” It was Stapleton this time.

  “Because I thought it was cruel.”

  “Cruel how?”

  “Taking advantage.”

  Stapleton nodded and scribbled himself a note before looking up again.

  “What state was Kelly in by the time you did the interview?”

  “Terrible, worse. You can see it on the tape.”

  “But still no drugs?”

  “No, they came later.”

  “How?”

  “Somebody came round. There must have been a buzz on the phone. I don’t know.”

  “Were these the same people you’d met earlier?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw them.”

  Unprompted, through Faraday, J-J described what happened next. Eadie had taken over the camera. Daniel had injected himself, then stumbled away to bed.

  “Like a drunk,” J-J signed. “Like a zombie.”

  Stapleton leaned towards him. “And you had no part in any of that?”

  “None.”

  “Why not?”

  “I thought it was wrong.”

  “And what do you think now? Now that Daniel’s dead?”

  “I still think it was wrong.”

  “You think you were responsible for him dying?”

  “No. He’d have died anyway.”

  “So why was it wrong?”

  “Because we robbed him.”

  “Robbed him?”

  Stapleton looked at Faraday to check the translation. Faraday confirmed it with a nod, resigned now to letting the interview run its course. Stapleton returned to J-J.

  “Robbed him how? Robbed him of what?”

  J-J took his time. He was staring at his father. Finally, he cupped a shape with his hands and then made a tiny turning motion with his body.

  Faraday paused for a moment, reflecting on the gesture. Then he looked at Stapleton.

  “I think he means Kelly’s entire life,” he said quietly. “By putting it on tape and taking it away, they stole it.”

  The interview ended at 17.05. Between them, Stapleton and Moffat went back over J-J’s account, confirming details, asking for extra information, making it plain that J-J had to realise how important it was to be absolutely sure he hadn’t missed anything out. Finally, almost as an afterthought, they enquired about the incident at the petrol station. Just what had J-J intended to do with two lit res of Supergreen unleaded?

  Faraday, bracing himself for the next revelation, had dutifully signed the question. This time, to his relief, J-J simply shook his head.

  “You don’t know or you won’t tell us?”

  Another shake of the head. Stapleton looked to Faraday for help.

  “He means, “No comment,” Faraday said.

  Afterwards, J-J was returned to his cell, scarcely sparing his father a backward glance. Faraday and Crewdson were shown into the Duty Inspector’s empty office while Stapleton and Moffat conferred with the Custody Sergeant. The next half-hour, as Faraday knew only too well, would probably decide J-J’s fate.

  “What do you think?”

  Crewdson had opened a window and lit a small cheroot.

  “I think I might have been wrong.” He expelled a thin blue plume of smoke. “Your boy was sensational. In a court of law he’d win a round of applause.”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “He confirmed everything they already know. Sure, he tried to score for Kelly but he did it with the best of intentions. There’s no question that he was physically involved in supply, but every indication that he was appalled by what followed. There’s something else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You fucked around with a couple of the answers…” He paused. “Didn’t you?”

  Faraday nodded, aware of the hot blush of colour rising in his face.

  “Instinct,” he muttered. “Couldn’t help myself.”

  Crewdson gazed at him a moment, then stepped across. Faraday felt oddly grateful for the hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m not blaming you for a moment,” Crewdson said softly. “Any father would have done the same. It’s just nice the whole interview’s on video.”

  Faraday stared at the solicitor. The last hour or so had upset him more than he’d thought possible. Why the broad grin?

  “You’re telling me all that was inadmissible?” he said at last.

  “Totally. They had
no right to put you in that situation, total conflict of interest. Believe me, that interview won’t get anywhere near a courtroom.” He gave Faraday’s shoulder a final pat. “They won’t see it that way, of course, but then policemen never do.”

  The summons to the Custody Sergeant came shortly afterwards. Faraday followed Crewdson through to the Charge Room. They passed Stapleton and Moffat in the corridor. The two DCs were on their way out to the car park. Neither said a word.

  The Custody Sergeant was standing at his desk, sorting through the paperwork from the arrest and interview. He acknowledged their presence with a nod, then reached for a pen, glanced up at the clock on the wall, and began to write. Finally, he closed the folder and capped the pen.

  “I’ve had a word with DCs Stapleton and Yates.” He tapped the file. “I’ve also been through statements from DCs Winter and Suttle. Given the lad’s cooperation, there’s no point in remanding him. Under the circumstances, we’re bailing him for two weeks, pending further inquiries. He needs to be back here on the fifth of April.” He produced another form for signature.

  “Would you mind, Mr. Faraday?”

  Chapter 12

  THURSDAY 20 MARCH 2003, 17.30

  The last place DC Jimmy Suttle would have chosen for a discreet meet was the top floor of the Southsea branch of Debenhams. The Debs cafeteria was for bored housewives with oodles of kids or OAPs in search of a cheap snack. What on earth was a vision like Trudy Gallagher doing in a place like this?

  “It’s Blue Cross Day. They’re giving stuff away. What makes you so choosy? Are you rich, or something? Look…” She reached down for her bag and produced a collection of boxed underwear. Two pairs of black lace knickers. A scarlet bikini for the summer. Three silk thongs in case she ever met the man of her dreams. “Under forty quid the lot. Happy now?”

  “Very.” Suttle was thinking of the body they’d found in the upstairs room at Bystock Road. Black lace would be perfect. “What about blokes’ stuff?”

  “Take your choice. 501s. Maine. Adidas. Stuff they rip you off on any other place.”

  “You think I should take a stroll, then? While you finish that lot?” He nodded at her bowl: three scoops of ice cream with a dressing of maple syrup.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Stay here.”

  She ducked her head to hide her smile and loaded her spoon with melting ice cream. She’d phoned Suttle on the mobile number he’d given her at Gunwharf, the first time they’d met. She wanted to talk to him about something but it had to be private, one on one. If he turned up with that tosser Paul Winter, there was no way they’d even start a conversation.

  Suttle, amused by her dismissal of Winter, had invented a pressing appointment at his dentist and left Winter pursuing house-to-house inquiries in Portsea. He’d heard him on the phone to the Crime Squad DS, telling him there was no way anyone with half a brain in Portsea would ever testify against one of Bazza’s lieutenants, but it seemed that

  DI Lamb was under the cosh for a result and was insisting on giving the house-to-house a punt. Winter, he knew, hadn’t been fooled by his line about the dentist but was evidently happy to cut his young oppo a little slack. “Whoever she is,” he’d grunted, “give her one from me.”

  Trudy had abandoned the ice cream. The smoking tables were on the other side of the cafeteria, beside the loo. Suttle pulled out a chair for Trudy, catching a swirl of perfume as she sat down. His last girlfriend had also been mad about Ralph Lauren, though a 36 atomiser for Christmas had done nothing to rescue the relationship.

  “Where did you learn stuff like that?” Trudy shook out two Marlboro Lites and laid one beside his half-drained glass of 7 UP.

  “Stuff like what?”

  “Manners.”

  “Comes naturally. I was born polite.”

  “Naturally bollocks. How come you’re in a job like this, nice bloke like you?”

  “The money’s good. Plus you get to meet interesting people.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like you, for starters.”

  “I didn’t come here to be chatted up.”

  “Yes you did. Light?” He cupped a match in his hand, keeping it close, and felt the soft brush of her hair as she leant forward over the table. Moments later, behind a cloud of blue smoke, she started to laugh.

  “You know something? You’re really nice. I mean it. Most blokes in this city haven’t got a clue. They treat you like you’re something out of a zoo. Give your cage a rattle. Give you a poke to see if you’re still breathing. Bet you’re really gentle, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Suttle nodded. “I am.”

  “I like that in a man, I really do. Not enough of it around.”

  “What?”

  “Gentle.” She paused while a middle-aged woman in an ankle-length coat swept past en route to the loo.

  Suttle caught a gust of air freshener as she pushed at the door, then Trudy was beckoning him closer.

  “It’s about Dave Pullen,” she muttered. “I’ve done something really daft and I’m scared shitless about what’s going to happen. There are ten million people I could talk to about it but they’re all pretty fucking clueless.”

  “So why me?”

  “I just told you. You’re nice. Plus you’ve probably got a brain.”

  “I’m also a cop.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not your fault.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m serious. If I wanted a cop I could talk to Uncle Paul. I know he’s a twat sometimes but he knows what he’s about when it comes to doing the business.”

  “Who says?”

  “My mum. And she should know.”

  Suttle nodded. There were snares here, he knew it, traps of his own baiting. Just looking at this girl, he sensed she was genuine. Not only did she fancy him but she wanted his advice. Was that asking too much? He thought not.

  “Tell me about Dave Pullen,” he said quietly. “Pretend I don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That he was the guy who hurt you the other night.”

  “How the fuck did you know that?”

  “I listened when we were down at Gunwharf. And I watched you.”

  “Listened? Well, there’s a first. Not too many girls get listened to in this town.” She frowned at him. “What made you think it was them Scouse kids, then?”

  “Guesswork. You sort out what you know, find a pattern, then try and make everything else fit. Sometimes it works.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “Too right. The Scouse kids were OK.”

  “Wrong, my love. The Scouse kids are shit.”

  “So what does that make Dave Pullen?”

  “He’s shit as well. And ugly with it. So what does that make you?”

  “You want the truth? It makes me a pathetic little slapper who’s completely fucking lost it. You know what I’ve done about Dave? You really want to find out just how fucking stupid I am?”

  “Tell me.”

  “There’s a guy called Bazza Mackenzie.” She paused. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK. So Bazza and my mum go back years. He’s been screwing her since I can remember. He’s like family, looked after me and my mum really well. Lately they’ve been having a bit of a problem but that doesn’t make any difference to me. If I need someone to talk to, really talk to, then I know he’ll always be there for me.”

  “So you told him about Dave?”

  “I did, yeah.”

  “And you’re worried what’ll happen next?”

  “I know what’ll happen next. Bazza will kill him. And that’s if he’s lucky.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Of course it does. Dave’s got his bad side, just like all of us. If I never see him again there won’t be a happier girl in the world, but you can’t be with a bloke for a couple of months and not feel something for him. He’s a dickhead. He can be really horrible sometimes. But I shouldn’t have gone shouting my mouth
off the way I did. Because it’s going to be my fault, isn’t it? When Bazza breaks his legs?”

  The loo door opened. Another blast of air freshener. Suttle waited until the woman had gone, then leant forward across the table.

  “One thing I don’t understand.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why Dave Pullen in the first place?”

  Trudy gave the question some thought. Then she glanced at her watch and crushed the remains of her cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Do you really live in Petersfield?”

  “Near there, yes.”

  “Own place?”

  “Rented cottage. Shared with another guy.”

  “Cool.” She reached down for her bag. “I know some great pubs out that way.”

  By the time Eadie Sykes got to Guildhall Square, the demo had already begun. She was no judge of crowds but the briefest headcount in the area closest to the Guildhall steps suggested a grand total of maybe a thousand. From his perch halfway up the steps, a thin, intense-looking man in jeans and T-shirt was using a portable megaphone to offer his thoughts on stopping the war. He himself, it seemed, had volunteered to go to Baghdad as a human shield, prepared to hazard his own flesh and blood against the fury of the fascist warlords. Reference to Bush’s billion-dollar killing machine sparked yells of approval from the small army of school kids at the front of the crowd, and the human shield volunteer drew a wider round of applause as he ended his speech with a call for solidarity.

  Eadie watched as the megaphone passed to a huge, bear-like man with a full beard. He beamed down at the mass of protestors, battling with the rising swell of chants, trying to impose some kind of order on the chaos below. The demo was to form up behind the wall of placards. The route would take them past the railway station and through the Commercial Road shopping precinct. With luck, he said, they’d stop the rush-hour traffic at the other end. The plan was to rally at the gates of HMS Excellent on Whale Island, but with so many police around there were no guarantees they’d make it that far.

  Eadie knew what he meant. She’d been in touch with the demo organisers earlier, a mobile number handed out by the Stop The War Coalition, and her offer to tape the proceedings had been snapped up.