Cut To Black

by Hurley, Graham

  “There’s a bloke called Barry. Looks like a child molester. Thin hair. Scary eyes.” He paused. “Do us a favour?”

  “Barry Leggat.” She didn’t need to go across to the board. “Came out a couple of months ago. Did two years for ringing bent motors.”

  “Local?”

  “Leigh Park. Supposed to be shacked up with a woman called Jackie something or other. She’s scary, too. You want the address?”

  Winter grunted a yes and waited while she thumbed through a couple of files. Oakmount Road. House with a whole family of gnomes in the front garden.

  “Anything else I can do you for?” Dawn laughed. “Cappuccino? Carrot cake? Nut cutlet?”

  She rang off, leaving Winter gazing at the address. Moments later, he was back in Cathy Lamb’s office.

  “Just an idea, Cath. Are you up for this?”

  “Go on.” She was looking wary again.

  Winter explained about the workshop at the back of Valentine’s showroom. Barry Leggat, he suspected, might be the guy to unpack the goodies once the cars had driven down from London. He’d undoubtedly earn a drink or two in the process and, with Valentine bailing out, that source of income would suddenly dry up. If that was the case, and the last consignment had been as huge as street talk suggested, then what would be the harm in helping himself to an ounce or two on the side?

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “We get a warrant on his house. Do it ASAP. If we find any gear, he might be up for a longer conversation.”

  “A warrant on what grounds?”

  “Good point.” Winter gazed at the ceiling a moment. He needed an informant, someone with credible information. “Dave Pullen.” He smiled. “I saved his arse this morning, and he knows it. Plus he’s not best mates with Valentine.”

  “He’ll stand the intelligence up?”

  “Enough for the magistrate, no problem.”

  Cathy still wasn’t convinced.

  “What about this Leggat?” she said. “You think he’d be silly enough to stash the cocaine at home? Assuming you’ve got this right?”

  “He’s just done two years, Cath.” Winter was looking wounded. “Bright guys in this world never get caught.”

  Faraday was happy to accept Nigel Phillimore’s offer of afternoon tea. Mortified by his conduct in the cathedral but still cocooned by three hours of drinking, he accompanied Phillimore up the High Street to the narrow little house that came with the post of Canon.

  He and Phillimore had met a couple of years back. Faraday was investigating the death of a fourteen-year-old from Old Portsmouth, and had been surprised to unearth a relationship between the dead girl’s mother and this man of the cloth. The inquiry had led to a couple of lengthy conversations in Phillimore’s house, both of which had stuck in Faraday’s mind not simply because they’d been evidentially so vital but because he’d rarely met anyone so open and sympathetic. This man, he’d thought at the time, offers something extraordinary: the gift of immediate and unconditional friendship. For a detective used to a culture built on instinctive suspicion, he was a very rare bird indeed.

  Phillimore’s house, when he pushed the door open and stood aside, even smelled the same: a certain brand of joss stick, exotic, pungent, that brought the memory of their previous encounters flooding back. Faraday made his way along the narrow hall, reaching for support when the drink threatened to get the better of him, recognising the framed colour photos of Angola hanging on the wall. Phillimore had taken them himself, years ago during a Fair Trade visit, and Faraday remembered him talking about the country with a quiet intensity that was all the more arresting for being so unforced.

  Upstairs, too, little seemed to have changed. The cosy sitting room warmed by bookshelves and a threadbare oriental carpet looked out onto the High Street, and Faraday recognised the Chinese bowl of potpourri on the window sill. He settled himself in a battered armchair beside the window as Phillimore enquired about his taste in tea. He had Earl Grey, Lapsang, or a new discovery he’d made only last week, Munnar Premium. Faraday beamed at him, telling him it didn’t matter. Medium height, with a slight stoop, Phillimore had put on a little weight since they’d last met but the smile on his face was just the same. It was a face made for kinship and laughter. Just sitting here, Faraday felt immediately brighter.

  “Your cat?” he asked.

  “On loan. I’ve been away for a while. Only got back last night.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen while Faraday inspected the postcards pinned to corners of the bookshelves. On this evidence,

  Phillimore had friends in Salzburg, Bombay, Paris, and a cityscape that looked like Rio. Someone in Pompey who dared to look outwards.

  Minutes later, he was back with a tray of tea. Another journey yielded a lemon cake and a plate of macaroons.

  “This one turned up at lunchtime from a woman in the choir.” His knife was hovering over the cake. “Go away for a couple of weeks and you forget how spoiled we are.”

  He cut two generous slices and passed one to Faraday. He’d been off on a three-week jaunt to Kerala. That part of India had always fascinated him, the idea of the place, and he’d been glad to discover that communism could indeed go hand in hand with equality and a certain levelling of outcomes.

  “Communism?” Faraday was lost.

  “The provincial government is communist, and I have to say that it shows. Superb education. Terrific command of English. And the nicest people in the world.” He paused, slipping effortlessly from one theme to another. “Do you mind me saying something?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You look exhausted.”

  “Drunk, I’m afraid.”

  “No,” Phillimore was stirring his tea. “It’s more than that.” He glanced up. “What did you think of the choir?”

  “I thought they were superb.”

  “They’re Estonian. They come from Tallinn. They’re singing tomorrow night, half past seven. You should come. And I mean that.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Last time I seem to remember it was you asking all the questions.” He smiled. “So how’s it been?”

  Faraday gazed at him for a long moment. It was an innocent enough enquiry, a near-stranger expressing a passing interest in his well-being, but there was something in his tone of voice, in the tilt of his head, that spoke of genuine concern. This man really cares, Faraday thought.

  “It’s been bloody,” he said quietly. “If you really want to know.”

  “Bloody…how?”

  “Bloody awful. Just…” he spread his hands hopelessly, “…bloody.”

  He told Phillimore a little about the last two years, the wash-up after the fourteen-year-old’s death, his subsequent transfer into Major Crimes, the caseload he’d been dealing with since.

  “Was it a promotion, Major Crimes?”

  “They put it that way, yes.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  “I think they’re right. In my business we talk about the quality of a crime. You get to concentrate on one thing at a time a rape, a murder, sometimes both. After divisional CID, believe me, that’s a relief.”

  “You felt spoiled?” Phillimore was smiling again.

  “Definitely. But it’s a compliment, too. It means they trust you. Some of this stuff is tough, high profile. You can’t afford to let them down.”

  “The relatives?”

  “Of course. And your bosses, too.”

  “Which matters most?”

  It was a good question and Faraday conceded as much by ducking his head and reaching for a slice of cake. Eadie Sykes, he knew, would say Daniel Kelly. What did Faraday himself think?

  “Each case is different,” he said at last. “Just now I have to tell you I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. Operationally’ he shot Phillimore a bleak smile ‘it’s impossible.”

  “Are you sure that’s the problem?”


  “I’m not with you.”

  “This operation…inquiry…investigation…whatever it is. We all hide behind our jobs. Are you sure it’s not something else?”

  Faraday looked startled. This man’s judgement was faultless. But how could he begin to disentangle J-J, and Eadie Sykes, and the wreckage of his private life from the monster that was Tumbril?

  “Policemen have a knack of taking their work home,” he began lamely.

  “So do we. And it’s not always helpful, is it?”

  “No, not at all. But what do you do about it?”

  “You find a relationship, and then stick to it. In my case, it happens to be God. Whether that makes me lucky is for other people to judge. Most of us have to make do with each other.”

  “I’ve tried that.”

  “And?”

  “It’s falling apart.”

  “Because of the job?”

  “Partly, yes. There’s…” he shrugged “…a conflict of interest. Interests plural, if you want the truth. My partner thinks she can change the world. My son thinks the same. I admire them for trying but I know they’ll fail.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a policeman. I know what people are like. Criminals. Bosses. Colleagues. I see it every day. On the other hand…” He frowned, trying to concentrate, trying to tease out the essence of what he wanted to say. “I’m the first to get behind my partner, my son. It’s vital someone has a go. Even if they fail.”

  Briefly, he explained about Eadie’s commitment to Ambrym, the trust she’d vested in J-J, the drugs video they were making tough, uncompromising, brutally realistic.

  “Has it occurred to you they may not fail?”

  “They will. I know they will. Drugs are like rain, like gravity. Whatever we do, they’ll still be there. That’s the way of the world. Blood and treasure. Greed. Power. Taking advantage. That’s why people like me have a job to go to every morning.”

  “You should be glad, thankful.”

  “I know. And most of the time I am.”

  “So where’s the problem?”

  “The problem is I’m piggy in the middle.” Faraday laughed, suddenly struck by the phrase.

  “And that’s uncomfortable?”

  “Impossible sometimes. It turns you into someone you’re not. You can feel it happening, feel it inside you. Next thing you know, you’re sitting in the Dolphin, ordering that second pint, losing your grip.”

  “And grip’s important?”

  “Grip’s essential. From where I sit, grip’s everything. No grip, no job.”

  “OK.” Phillimore conceded the point. “And if it comes to no job?”

  “No nothing.” Faraday blinked, astonished by this small truth. Did the job matter to him that much? Was it true what people said about coppers? Once a policeman, always a policeman?

  “No nothing,” he repeated. “Maybe it’s that simple.”

  Winter was in his car outside the duty magistrate’s Old Portsmouth flat when he finally got hold of Jimmy Suttle. Getting the search warrant had been harder than he’d anticipated. Even with the intelligence from Dave Pullen, the magistrate had pointed out the lack of hard evidence against Barry Leggat, and it was only Winter’s insistence that a search of these premises might have a significant impact on the current explosion of drug abuse that had finally won the woman’s grudging approval. Anything, she’d said, to stem the flood of increasingly young druggies through her courtroom.

  Now, Winter wanted Suttle’s full attention.

  “The address is 17 Oakmount Road,” he said. “I’ve got to organise a dog. There’s a lay-by round the corner. Meet you there for seven.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “What?” Winter was staring at the mobile.

  “I promised Trude I’d meet her for nine. We’re going to Forty Below.

  Why don’t you tap up one of the married blokes? They’ll jump at the overtime.”

  Winter was about to give Suttle an earful about the wisdom of appearing with Trudy Gallagher on Bazza’s turf, then paused, struck by another thought.

  “You going to be there for long?”

  “Where?”

  “Forty Below.”

  “Haven’t a clue. Depends on Trude. Couple of hours at least. Why?”

  Winter didn’t answer. The warrant lay beside him on the passenger seat. A decent search might take a couple of hours, with a good dog maybe less. If they scored a result, he’d have to haul Leggat down to the Bridewell and book him in. The paperwork would take another half-hour, max, and if they’d lifted a decent quantity of gear he wouldn’t need to start interviewing until the following day. Misty Gallagher was in London. That left him plenty of time to get down to Forty Below and have a word or two with young Jimmy before the lad dragged Trudy off to bed.

  “You still there?” It was Suttle.

  “Yeah.” Winter nodded. “Forget the search.”

  Faraday was up in the seafront apartment, watching television, by the time Eadie made it back from London. She’d taken a cab from the station and now, exhausted, she bent over him on the long sofa. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, then pulled back.

  “You’ve been drinking,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re pissed.” She was looking at the bottle of South African red on the floor by his foot.

  “Right again.”

  “Why?” The smile of amusement on her face made Faraday reach up for her. She sank briefly down beside him.

  “Come to apologise.” His smile widened into a grin.

  “Who has?”

  “Me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you about it.” He nodded towards the screen. “How was the demo?”

  “Average. You eaten at all? Only I’m starving.”

  Faraday nodded, watching her as she left the sofa and headed for the kitchen. He turned back to the TV, watching the now nightly bombardment of Baghdad. A minute or two later, Eadie was back standing beside the sofa, an enormous sandwich in her hand. She wolfed it down, telling Faraday about the Al Jazeera footage between mouthfuls. J-J was lashed to the PC at Ambrym, knocking the stuff together. He should be proud of the boy. Natural eye for the telling cut.

  “Al Jazeera?”

  Eadie looked down at him, then began to laugh. Events had moved so fast these last couple of days, she’d forgotten to tell him about the invitation from the Stop the War people. She and J-J were putting together a video to bring the world to its senses. Knock-out stuff.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And your drugs thing?”

  “Rough cut ready by tomorrow. I’ll tell you the rest when you’re sober.” She glanced at her watch, then nodded down at the bottle. “I wouldn’t stay up if I were you. It’s going to be a late one.”

  Faraday gazed up at her, lost again.

  “You’re off? Already?”

  “Fraid so.” She bent to the sofa and kissed him briefly on the cheek. “Paracetamol’s in the bathroom cabinet. See you in the morning.”

  It was dusk by the time Winter was ready to launch the search of Leggat’s house. Cathy Lamb had detailed one of the older of the squad’s DCs, Danny French, to make the rendezvous in Leigh Park, and a dog handler had turned up in a white Escort van. The dog’s name, he said was Pepys, a German shepherd. He was new to the game and occasionally overeager.

  They drove in convoy to Leggat’s address. Number 17 was an ex-council house that had been given the full makeover. The double-glazing units looked brand new and the front door was protected by a gleaming porch in white UPVC. Dawn, to Winter’s amusement, hadn’t been kidding about the gnomes. He stood outside the house, counting them, while the dog handler readied Pepys for the search.

  “All right?”

  The porch was a couple of steps from the front gate. Winter rang twice and waited. From a corner of the tiny front garden came the trickle of a water feature. The most distant of
the gnomes, according to French, was incontinent. At length the door opened.

  “Mrs. Leggat?” Winter showed her his warrant card.

  “What’s this about?” She was staring at the panting dog.

  Winter produced the search warrant and began to explain but she cut him short.

  “I’m not having that thing in here. Not with Treacle around.”

  Treacle was her cat, an enormous tom which was standing in the hall, its back arched, hissing. Winter suggested Treacle take a walk in the garden. Cat or no cat, they were coming in.

  The woman looked at him a moment, then turned and shooed the cat towards a door at the back. She was a big woman who didn’t suit jeans.

  Winter and French stepped inside. They’d call the dog in later.

  “Barry around?”

  “He’s in the bath.”

  “Get him out of there, will you? Tell him not to flush the loo or empty the bath. Second thoughts, I’ll do it.”

  The expression on the woman’s face sent Winter up the narrow stairs. The house was spotless. Winter’s taste didn’t run to Regency wallpaper or Tiffany lamps but the place was plainly cherished. The bathroom door was at the end of the upstairs landing. Winter could hear the splash of water and the blare of a radio with the volume turned up. Guests on some phone-in programme were discussing the Portsmouth game. Preston had been rubbish, the caller was saying. Pompey should have hammered them.

  Winter pushed inside and plucked a towel from the rail behind the door. Leggat was sitting in the bath, washing his hair.

  “Out.” Winter threw the towel at him and nodded at the open door. “Now.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Leggat had shampoo in his eyes. It was several seconds before he recognised the face looking down at him.

  “DC Winter. We met this morning.”

  “You’re Filth?” Leggat looked astonished, then outraged. “How come…”

  Winter hauled him upright in the bath.

  “We’ll start upstairs,” he said briskly. “Best if you’re there too.”

  Back on the landing, the woman barred the way to the bedroom at the front. She was even bigger than Winter had thought.

  “Mrs….?” Winter smiled at her.

  “Comfort. And it’s Ms.” She was looking at Leggat. “If this is what I think it is…” The warning was all the more effective for being unspoken. Leggat, dripping suds onto the carpet, wound the towel round his waist and began to protest.