Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

"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."