Cut To Black

by Hurley, Graham

  “We’ve got a warrant.” Winter cut him short. “I showed your missus.”

  “Missus?” It was the woman again. “Since when have I been your missus?”

  “Don’t fucking ask me. I was just having a bath.”

  Winter took him by the elbow and steered him round the woman as she stepped back, trying to avoid physical contact.

  “It’s the one at the end,” she said, ‘if you’re looking for his room.”

  Leggat’s bedroom must have recently belonged to a teenage girl. There were luminous stars on the ceiling and no one had bothered to remove the torn-out photos of Robbie Williams and Jude Law Blu-tacked to the wallpaper. After the rest of the house, thought Winter, this room was a doss.

  “Do you want to help us out here?” Winter was looking at Leggat. “Only it’d be nice to leave the floorboards in one piece.”

  “You bloody dare.” The woman was standing in the open doorway.

  “Try me.” Winter nodded beyond her. French had appeared on the landing. He was a tall man, an ex-para, and he carried the crowbar with a certain authority.

  Leggat had found himself a pullover and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. He sat down on the bed, refusing to say another word. After the spasm of anger in the bathroom, he looked defeated.

  “Try the wardrobe.” The woman had folded her enormous arms. “He’s always poking around in there.”

  Winter stepped across to the MFI wardrobe in the corner. Various bits of clothing were stacked on the shelves down one side. A velvet suit hanging at the front of the rack had suffered at the hands of the dry cleaners.

  “Drawer at the bottom. Where he keeps his toys.” The woman again.

  Winter knelt on the carpet. The drawer was a tight fit and the whole wardrobe rocked as he wrestled it open. Inside, to his surprise, he found half a dozen model railway engines, die-cast self-assemblies in metal, nestled on a carefully fitted oblong of green baize. Each of the steam engines was mounted on a single length of track. 00 gauge, thought Winter, lifting one out.

  “You make these?”

  Leggat nodded. He’d found a spent match from somewhere and was cleaning the dirt from under his nails.

  “Merchant Navy class.” Winter turned the model over. “Beautifully painted, really nice. They got motors inside?”

  “No.”

  “Just for show, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  French had joined Winter in front of the wardrobe.

  “Look.” He’d found a set of jeweller’s tools in a plastic wallet.

  Winter glanced at the proffered screwdriver then turned the engine over. Underneath, a line of four tiny screws held the body to the chassis. Look hard, and you could see the tiny scratch marks around the head of each of the screws. Winter held the engine to his ear and then gave it a shake. Nothing.

  He glanced across at Leggat again.

  “Must have packed it really tight.” Winter held out the screwdriver. “Best if you do the honours.”

  At nine o’clock, Faraday rang for a cab. Half a pint of coffee and a couple of minutes under the cold shower in Eadie’s bathroom had restored more than his balance. When the cab arrived, he left the TV and lights on, pulled the door shut, and made his way downstairs. On the journey across to the Bargemaster’s House he sat in silence in the back, nodding along to the cabbie’s choice of music. Neil Young, he thought. Nice.

  Home at last, he closed the front door behind him and checked the phone for messages, then shortened the response time to three rings. In the kitchen, with a comforting briskness, he cleared up the last of J-J’s debris, binning the remains of a bacon sandwich before preparing himself a cheese omelette. Realising how hungry he was, he cut four thick slices of bread and dropped two into the toaster. There was a jar of lime pickle in the fridge, a tin of baked beans in the cupboard over the sink, and half a bagful of wilting rocket in the vegetable rack. Sitting in the lounge with the curtains back, he demolished the meal in minutes. Out on the blackness of the harbour, he watched the lights of a fishing boat, or perhaps a yacht, pushing slowly out towards the harbour narrows and the open sea.

  When the phone went, he ignored it. He made himself a pot of tea and added an extra spoonful of sugar to the waiting mug. Full now, and surprisingly content, he switched on the radio and surfed the presets until he found a concert. Berlioz. Romeo and Juliet. He laughed at the irony, genuinely amused, and wrestled his favourite chair closer to the view. Settling back, he kicked off his shoes and rested his feet on the low table where he normally kept his birding magazines.

  Already, the events of the day seemed to have happened to someone else. Too much introspection, he thought. Too much time wasted demanding more from life than anyone could reasonably expect. Truth was, blokes like him coppers, detectives couldn’t afford the luxury of thinking too hard, worrying too much, not if they wanted to get through in one piece. The little insight that Nigel Phillimore had unearthed was spot on. Grip was more important than anything else.

  He raised his second mug of tea in a private tribute to the cleric, recognising how skilfully he’d handled their teatime encounter. The best counsellors, like the best detectives, never bullied you with too many questions. Instead, like a good helmsman, they supplied a thought here and there, tiny adjustments on the tiller, until you suddenly found yourself voicing a truth you’d failed to notice under all the other crap. Grip, he thought again.

  Later, the concert over, he checked the phone. It was Willard. He wanted to know that they were set for tomorrow. “No surprises’ was one of his trademark expressions.

  With a glance at his watch, Faraday called him back, glad he’d never made it to Willard’s Old Portsmouth house. Bothering him with today’s nonsense would have been a real imposition.

  “That you, Joe?” Willard had evidently been asleep.

  “Just returning your call, sir.”

  “Anything happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “We’re OK, then? Tomorrow at twelve?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thank Christ for that.”

  Willard rang off, leaving Faraday at the foot of the stairs. He stood motionless for a full minute, listening to the house breathing around him. The wind had got up again, and he could hear the slap-slap of halyards from the nearby dinghy park. At length, from out on the harbour, came the peeping of a flock of oystercatchers squabbling over a late supper. Birds with attitude, Faraday told himself, and a certain sense of purpose. He smiled at the thought, then began to climb the stairs.

  Forty Below was bursting by the time Winter made it to Gunwharf. Booking Leggat into the Bridewell had taken longer than he’d anticipated. The queue for the Custody Sergeant was already five deep by half past eight, and even the discovery of a sizeable stash of uncut Colombian the contents of four Merchant Navy-class engines, each sealed in its plastic evidence bag failed to shift the backlog.

  Winter had mopped up the time with a second call to Cathy Lamb. She was mystified by his request that she talk to P&O in the morning, but wrote down the name he mentioned. Thanks to her husband Pete, she had a direct line to a woman called Penny who ran the ferry company’s PR department. She and Pete both sailed Lasers from the Lee-on-the Solent club and if anyone could confirm the number of a pre-booked outside cabin in the name of Valentine then it would be her.

  “What next?” Cathy had enquired.

  “Going home, boss. Long day.”

  Now, eyeing the mass of clubbers queuing for Forty Below, Winter calculated his chances of talking himself in on a freebie. Entry was 15, an outrageous sum, but the last thing he wanted to use was his warrant card. A portly middle-aged gent in an MS suit was clue enough. Why should he make it really easy for the bastards?

  At the door, he found himself suddenly engulfed by a party of middle-aged swingers fresh from a birthday celebration in a nearby restaurant. They’d pre-booked entry to the club’s
V.I.P suite and, for the second time that night, Winter knew that his luck was in.

  “Cheers, mate.” Winter patted the doorman on the shoulder, briefly pretending he was as pissed as the rest of them. “Happy days, eh?”

  Inside, the noise was deafening. Winter stuck with his new friends until he was well clear of the door, then peeled off. The club was cavernous, the size of an aircraft hangar. Bodies whirled around each other, a blur of arms and legs, and Winter found himself raked by regular bursts of strobe lighting, a splatter of mauves and greens. Half an hour of this, he thought, and you’d be begging for mercy.

  A dispute over a spilled drink brought the music to a brief halt. Security waded in, sorting out a drunken youth with a gelled Mohican and marching him towards the door. Then the DJ bent to his decks again, announcing something even louder, with a pumping bass that brought whoops of approval.

  By now, Winter was methodically searching the room, a dozen dancers at a time, hunting for Suttle. He found Trudy first. She was over towards the long brushed-metal crescent of the bar, dancing with a girl her own age, arms up, fingers splayed, eyes closed. Winter edged slowly round her, eyes scanning left and right, at last recognising the slender figure of Suttle as he threaded a path through the dancers towards Trudy.

  Winter intercepted him. Suttle, for a second, hadn’t a clue who he was.

  “My shout.” Winter was easing him towards the bar. “What do you want?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Favour.”

  “What?”

  “Favour!” Winter yelled.

  He abandoned the bar and indicated the nearby lavatories. Suttle shot him a look but came just the same. It was quieter here, with a mill of youths gel ling-up at the mirrors over the line of hand basins. Beside the contraceptive machine at the door, Winter broke the bad news.

  “Young Trudy,” he said. “I need her key.”

  “What key?”

  “The key to that flat across the road, Misty’s place.”

  Suttle stared at him, bemused.

  “So why ask me?”

  “I want you to nick it out of her bag.”

  “You’re mad. You must be off your head. Why would I do that?”

  “Because I just asked you.”

  It began to dawn on Suttle that Winter was serious.

  “Why do you need it?”

  “Can’t tell you. Not yet.” Winter breathed in to let an enormous youth in a Liverpool shirt through. “Let’s say it’s for Trudy’s sake. And yours.”

  “Mine? How’s that, then?”

  “Just get the key, son.” Winter checked his watch. “Give me forty-five minutes. Then I’ll have it back here. OK?”

  “No, it’s not fucking OK. In fact it’s well out of order. You can’t just…”

  Winter caught his arm and squeezed hard.

  “I nicked a guy with twelve grands’ worth of charlie an hour ago,” he murmured. “Just do what I ask, OK?”

  Mention of the cocaine seizure confused Suttle still further. Was he at work or was this really Saturday night?

  “All right,” he said at last. “Stay here.”

  He was back within minutes. Trudy’s bunch of keys was attached to a small fluffy teddy bear, candy pink. Winter slipped them in his pocket, then checked his watch again.

  “Half eleven, OK?”

  Outside the club, Winter made for the bridge that led to the residential part of the development. In front of Arethusa House, he paused for a second to peer up at Misty’s flat. The curtains were pulled back on the big picture windows and there was no sign of lights inside.

  At the main door to the block, he stopped to examine Trudy’s keys. The third one he tried released the lock. On the other side of the lobby, the lift was waiting, the door already open. Better and better, Winter thought.

  On the top floor, the lift whispered to a halt and Winter found himself stepping into Misty’s apartment. This time, he recognised the lingering scent of cigars. Valentine had been here.

  Winter crossed the darkened lounge, body-checking around the piles of cardboard boxes, and pulled the curtains across the window. With a knife from a kitchen drawer, he returned to the lift and wedged the door open. Anyone coming up would have to use the stairs.

  Back in the apartment, he put the lights on, adjusted the dimmer switch, then hesitated a moment, uncertain where to start. He knew what he wanted but he couldn’t see himself finding it in any of these cardboard boxes. Where, he wondered, would Misty keep her documentation, the paper trail that would flag her path out of Pompey?

  He went through to the bedroom, dropped the ruched curtains, and turned on another set of lights. The huge bed was unmade: dark blue sheets, an abandoned silk nightgown, a packet of Marlboro Lites, and a Barbara Taylor Bradford paperback open on the pillow.

  Winter began to search, starting with the dressing table beneath the window. The first drawer he opened was full of cosmetics and a playful selection of sex toys. The next one down was brimming with tights and thongs. No sign of anything on paper.

  Winter turned away and started on the wardrobe, a huge French-looking antique with a full-length mirror facing the bed. He opened the door and began to rummage amongst the jumble of shoes at the bottom, inserting his hand into a pair of thigh-length boots, getting down on his hands to inspect the void beneath. Again, nothing.

  Dozens of dresses hung from the rail at the top of the wardrobe. A leather jacket at the back looked briefly promising but all Winter could find in the pockets was a twenty-pence piece, a ticket stub for a Pompey game, and a wafer of spearmint chewing gum. Finally, he circled the bed, feeling under the mattress, just in case.

  On the point of abandoning the bedroom and starting on the lounge, he paused. The stool in front of the dressing table looked sturdy enough and he carried it across to the wardrobe before steadying it with one hand and clambering up. The wardrobe was topped with a scroll-like flourish of decorative oak, a wooden pediment that took the wardrobe within inches of the ceiling. Behind the pediment, invisible from below, might be some kind of hidey-hole.

  Winter reached up, feeling around, fighting to keep his balance. His fingers snagged a shape. It felt like leather. He tried to get a purchase on the object, inch it towards him. Finally, he found a handle. He knew now that it was some kind of briefcase. With an effort, his forearm wedged against the ceiling, he managed to lift it clear of the pediment. It looked new, ox-blood red, and it felt heavy. Good sign.

  The phone began to ring in the lounge. Winter, still on the stool, froze. The answering machine kicked in, then came a voice, Pompey accent, male, light, distinctive. “Mist,” the voice said. “Mate just told me Trude’s letting herself down. Silly girl. Keeping company like that.” The phone went abruptly dead. Winter gazed towards the open door. No doubt about it. Bazza.

  Winter stepped carefully off the stool and went across to the window. Easing back the curtain, he could see the Gunwharf waterfront. One of the white public order Transits from Central had just driven onto the plaza, the winking blue light mirrored in a thousand panes of glass. Uniforms were piling out of the back, mob handed, trying to contain the clubbers spilling out of Forty Below. Moments later, another blue light, an ambulance this time.

  Winter watched as the drama unfolded. The blokes from the Transit dealt with a couple of fights. Youths milled around, watching, drinking, laughing, giving anything in uniform the finger. Then the paramedics returned to the ambulance, pushing a body on a trolley. The youths crowded round, calling to their mates. Opening the back of the ambulance, the paramedics hoisted the trolley and slipped it in. Winter was too far away to be sure of a positive ID but experience told him never to discount coincidence. Bazza’s mates had spotted Trudy. And Suttle had paid the price.

  Winter retreated from the window, laid the briefcase on the bed and opened it. Inside, on top of a mass of brown A4 envelopes, were two passports, a driving licence, an E1 11 form, and a copy of the Rough Guide to Cro
atia. Beside it, in a Thomas Cook wallet, a thick wad of foreign currency. Winter began to sort through the envelopes. Bank details. Money transfer forms. Car documentation. Towards the bottom of the pile, he found a brand new envelope labelled with a big T circled in red. He felt inside and extracted four copies of an official-looking document. At the top, thickly embossed, it read “Confirmation of Paternity”. Beneath, typed, the results of the test Misty had described. Trudy Gallagher was indeed Mike Valentine’s daughter, and here was the proof.

  Winter read the certificate again. Then he removed one of the copies, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. The remaining three he returned to the envelope. With the briefcase back on top of the wardrobe, he replaced the stool, turned off the light and pulled open the curtains. He did the same next door, then made for the lift. Back outside on the waterfront, he looked across towards the plaza. The ambulance had gone and the uniforms were doing their best to shepherd everyone back inside the nightclub.

  Winter turned and gazed up at the darkened apartment a moment, then stepped across to the rail. The black waters of the harbour lapped at the pilings below and Trudy’s bunch of keys made the softest plop as he dropped them into the darkness. The kitchen knife he’d used to wedge the lift door followed, but he made no move to leave.

  After a while, he looked up at the apartment for a second time. Why Croatia?

  Chapter 20

  SUNDAY, 23 MARCH 2003, 08.14

  Broad stripes of sunshine on the wall beside the bedroom window. A curtain stirred by a feather of wind from the harbour. Scents of bladder wrack and crusting mud, of tarry rope and very faintly -rotting fish. Underscoring it all, the squawk of black-headed gulls busy contesting booty from the morning’s high tide.

  Faraday turned over, reaching for the radio. Another noise, much closer. Footsteps within the house. He lay back a moment, then swung his legs out of bed. Naked except for the dressing gown he kept behind the door, he stepped onto the upstairs landing in time to see a tall, gawky figure disappearing into the bathroom. Then came the slide of the bolt as the mystery intruder locked himself in, and a sudden gush of water. J-J.