Graham Hurley: Cut to Black

Every relevant feature was helpfully labelled the boarded-up first-floor windows, the TV aerial adrift from the chimney stack, the abandoned fridge in the tiny back yard. There was no rear access and only one front door. In theory, as she'd been reckless enough to claim at this evening's pre-bust briefing, it should have been a breeze.

Yet somehow the two bodies they'd come to nick had both legged it. An area car was still quartering the nearby streets but the ASU's Islander Boxer One had thrown in the towel and flown home. The two white blobs on the thermal camera had split up as soon as the aircraft secured a fix. The ASU guys had tracked one of them as he scaled garden wall after garden wall before emerging at the end of the terrace. Sprinting the length of the neighbouring street, he'd ducked into the shelter of a garage. After that, in the dry commentary of Boxer One's observer, no further contact.

The area car had checked out the garage. A rusting Ford Escort with two flat tyres, half a lifetime's collection of paint tins, and a plastic dustbin full of fishing gear. No sign of an eighteen-year-old drug dealer with a taste for extreme violence.

The youngest of the DCs came limping down the stairs. His name was Jimmy Suttle. His suit was filthy and his face was smudged with dirt but his obvious glee brought the faintest smile to Lamb's face. More hope than expectation.

"Well?"

"Cracked it, boss." He sounded out of breath. "There's a hatch into the roof space. Little bastards had knocked through to next door. And then through again. Must have gone out via their back garden. I'm thinking number 34. That's the empty one down the street." He paused, confused by Lamb's reaction. "Boss?"

"You're telling me they had time for all that? We were in here in seconds. You know we were."

Winter nodded. The front door had surrendered to the House Entry Team without a fight. No way could the targets have legged it into the roof ahead of the cavalry.

Suttle stuck to his story. Crawling across the intervening attic, he'd let himself down into number 34. Fully furnished, the place was either up for let or awaiting the return of the owners. It had fitted carpets, nice pictures, wide screen TV, the works.

"And?"

"They'd obviously been using it. Or someone had. The place is a shit heap. Beds slept in. Empty bottles. Telly on. Old food ' "Pizzas?" Winter enquired drily.

"Everywhere. Kitchen. Lounge. Pepperami, bits of onion, HP sauce.

These blokes are animals."

"Yeah… like we didn't know."

"Gear?" It was Lamb again, almost plaintive.

"Fraid not, boss." The young detective was rubbing his knee. "Bit of charlie, bit of draw, but we're talking personal, not supply. They must have taken it with them. Dunno." He frowned. "What I'm thinking, they probably kipped at number 34, used the place like a hotel. Bloody sight nicer than this khazi."

"So why didn't we know?" Lamb was looking at Winter. "About number 34?"

"No idea." Winter looked round, pulling a face. "What's that smell?"

"Dog shit, mate." Suttle lifted his shoe, and then nodded up towards the bedrooms. "Knee deep, it is. Bloody everywhere."

The phone call came minutes later. Winter was first to the mobile, half hidden beneath a pile of unopened post. He picked it up in his handkerchief and then turned his back on the watching faces, grunting from time to time.,

"So who might you be?" he queried at last.

The conversation came to an abrupt end. Winter wrapped the mobile in the handkerchief, then laid it carefully on the plastic milk crate that served as an occasional table.

Cathy Lamb raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"Our absent friends." Winter grunted. "Definitely Scousers. They've got an address for us. Bystock Road. Number 93. They think we ought to pay a visit."

There was a brief silence. Cathy Lamb was looking ever more resigned.

Some jobs left you feeling worse than useless and this was definitely one of them.

"They're taking the piss." She sighed. "Aren't they?"

Bystock Road was a three-minute drive away, another of the endless terraced streets that had turned this corner of the city into a playground for double-glazing salesmen, dodgy roofers, and enforcers from the less scrupulous credit companies.

At Lamb's insistence, Winter took Suttle and two of the other DCs with him. Turning into Bystock Road, he nearly collided with a patrol car.

Winter got out and walked across. Number 93 was way down the other end of the street but already he could hear the music.

"Neighbour complaint. Rang in couple of minutes ago." The young PC at the wheel was Asian. "Bloke says he's going to take a hammer to next door if something isn't sorted."

"Address?" '91."

The two cars drove on, double-parking in the street outside 93. The upstairs window was wide open but the house was in darkness and there was no sign of a party. Winter's knowledge of music didn't extend much beyond Elton John but Suttle helped him out.

"Dr. Dre," he said briefly. "You're lucky you're so old."

The PC was already talking to the neighbour who'd rung the complaint in. He was a huge man in his forties, crop-haired with a two-day growth of beard, and Winter couldn't take his eyes off the blur of tattoos beneath his string vest. He said he hadn't a clue who lived next door, dossers always coming and going, but he meant it about the hammer.

"What do you think, then?" The Asian PC had turned to Winter.

"Me?" Winter was still eyeing the man next door. "I'd kick the door down and let him get on with it."

"You're serious?"

"Always. Except the paperwork would be a nightmare."

The PC offered Winter an uncertain grin. There were issues here — maybe drugs, maybe weapons and the night-shift skipper was manic about playing it by the book. Maybe they ought to be thinking about a risk assessment.

Winter walked across to the front door. Twice, he shouted up at the open window but his challenge was lost in the thump of the music.

Finally, he rapped at the door. When a second knock had no effect, he took a step backwards and motioned to Suttle.

"You're uglier than me." He nodded at the door. "Open it."

The young DC needed no encouragement. His third kick splintered the wood around the lock and a shoulder charge took him inside. Winter followed, fumbling along the wall for a light switch. A gust of something stale and acrid made him catch his breath. When he finally found the switch, it didn't work.

"Here."

It was the man next door with a heavy-duty torch. Winter took the torch and told him to get back outside.

"No fucking way."

Winter tracked the beam of the torch back along the narrow hall and into the neighbour's face.

"I said get outside."

The big man hesitated a moment, then shrugged and stepped back towards the pavement. Winter was already in the tiny lounge. The torch found a single mattress on the floor, one end surrounded with empty mugs, half-crushed milk cartons, and a small mountain of cigarette ends.

There was a pool of vomit under the window and more vomit crusting in the fireplace. Two o'clock in the morning, thought Winter, and there have to be better things to do than this.

The kitchen occupied the back of the house. A tap dripped in the darkness and there was a low whirring from what might have been a fridge. A single sweep from the torch revealed a table, two bicycles, and a catering-sized tin of Nescafe in the sink.

It was obvious by now that the music came from upstairs, the entire house shuddering under the heavy bass. Another hour or two of this, and number 93 would explode.

Winter climbed the stairs, Suttle behind him. There were three doors off the narrow landing at the top, two of them ajar. Winter checked quickly in both, then turned to the third. This room was at the front of the house.