Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

Dave Pullen lived at the top of a house towards the end of the street.

When two attempts to raise him through the speakerphone failed, Winter sent Suttle up the fire escape at the back. Seconds later, he was leaning over the rusting balustrade.

"There's a note," he yelled. "He'll be back in half an hour."

"Who's it to?"

"Doesn't say."

They waited in the car, parked on a double yellow at the end of the road. As curious as ever, Suttle wanted to know about Pullen, and about Bazza Mackenzie.

"Pullen's a knobber," Winter said at once. "Complete waste of space.

Could have made a decent foot baller once but pissed it up against the wall."

"You're into football?" This was news to Suttle, who was a Saints fan.

"God forbid, son, but it helps to pretend in this city. Those with a brain aren't a problem but all the rest think about is bloody football.

Sad but true."

"So how good was this bloke?"

"Pullen? Half decent, certainly. Used to turn out for Waterlooville before they merged with Havant."

"That's the Doc Martens League." Suttle was impressed. "What position?"

"Come again?"

"Where did he play? On the field?"

"Ah…" Winter frowned. "Up front, I suppose. I know he was forever scoring. That's how he got his nickname. Or partly, anyway."

"Pull 'em?"

"Exactly. On the field, he just blew up. Too many fags. Too many bevvies. Too much stuff up his nose. With women, though, it stuck.

Dave Pullen. Screwing for England. Young Trudy should have known better."

"Maybe he talks a good shag."

"Doubt it. I don't know about the rest of him but there's fuck all between his ears. Not that Trude's any intellectual, but then at eighteen you wouldn't be, would you?"

Suttle was watching a man of uncertain age weaving towards them along the pavement. He had a Londis bag in one hand and a can of Special Brew in the other. Scarlet-faced, glassy-eyed, he paused beside the car, raising the can in a peaceable salute when Suttle told him to fuck off.

"About this Bazza, then." He'd closed the window.

"Bazza…?" Winter glanced across at him, then settled back in the passenger seat, a smile on his face, the pose of a man savouring the meal of his dreams. "Bazza Mackenzie is the business," he said softly.

"Bazza Mackenzie is the closest this city gets to proper crime. It's blokes like Bazza make getting up in the morning a real pleasure. How many people could you say that about? Hand on heart?"

"He comes from round here?"

"Home grown, through and through. The authentic Pompey mush."

"You ever nick him?"

"Twice, in the early days." Winter nodded. "D and D both times, once on the se afront broad daylight, necked too many lagers on the pier.

The other time late at night, club in Palmerston Road, well shan tied on Stella and bourbon. Bazza couldn't see a fight without getting stuck in. If we were involved, so much the better."

"Lots of bottle, then?"

"Lunatic. Complete lunatic. I knew the woman he married pretty girl, bright too and she couldn't believe what she'd taken on. Total head case, she used to tell me. Knows absolutely no fear."

"Big guy? Physically?"

"Small' Winter shook his head 'small and up for it. But that's always the way, isn't it? You ever notice that, looking at a crowd of them, itching to take you on? It's always the small ones you have to watch.

Maybe they've got more to prove. Christ knows."

Suttle had his eyes on the rear-view mirror. The drunk was rounding the corner, swaying gently as he debated whether to cross the road at the end.

"And Pullen and this Bazza are big mates?"

"Mates, certainly. They go back forever. But then that's the way it works in the city. Same school, same pubs, same women. They ran with the 6.57, both of them. That was Bazza's major career move, took him to the big time."

The 6.57 had been a bunch of hooligans, Pompey's finest, taking the first train out every other Saturday and exporting a very special brand of football violence to rival grounds all over the country. According to Winter, it was the 6.57 who'd pioneered the major import of serious drugs into the city.

' '89' He grinned. "Summer of love. These guys had been kicking the shit out of each other for Christ knows how long, then suddenly they're blowing kisses and dancing together in the nightclubs and we're wondering what the fuck's going on."

"What was going on?"

"Ecstasy. They were bringing it in by the truckload, scoring from the rival firms in London. Some of the raves they organised that summer were awesome. Thousands of kids, out of their skulls. Law and order-wise, we never had a prayer. Made you proud, though, just being there. The girl he married was right. Blokes like Bazza, completely fucking reckless, really put the city on the map."

"Nice."

"Yeah. Didn't last, though. They took to cocaine after that and it all got ugly again."

"He stuck to cocaine? No smack?"

"Cocaine and rave drugs, plus amphetamine if you fancied it. Bazza had the odd dabble with heroin but much less than we thought at the time.

Wrong image. Smack's for losers."

Suttle was still watching the mirror. He touched Winter lightly on the arm.

"Tall bloke? Skinny?"

Winter glanced over his shoulder, then nodded.

"Let him get to the front door," he murmured, 'then we'll say hello."

But Pullen didn't go to the front door. Instead, he walked straight past the car and began to climb the first flight of steps on the fire escape. Winter watched him for a moment or two, wondering about the limp, then got out of the car. By the time Pullen realised he was being followed, he was nearly at the top.

"Dave. Long time." Winter was out of breath. "This is DC Suttle.

We'd appreciate a word."

"Sure. Why not?" Pullen tried to head down again. Winter blocked his way.

"Upstairs," he said. "In your place."

"Why not here? Or down there?"

"Because I'd prefer a bit of privacy. And because I'm bloody knackered."

Pullen looked suddenly haunted. He had a narrow, bony face, thinning hair that badly needed a trim, yellowing teeth. His sunken eyes were bloodshot and when he made a big show of checking his watch he had trouble keeping his hand steady. If this guy was an advert for the drugs biz, thought Suttle, then there must be better ways of earning a living. Give him a year or two, and a can of Special Brew, and he'd be just another item of street furniture.

"Well, old son…?" Winter was still playing the jovial cop.

"No way." Pullen shook his head. "You ain't got the right."

"No? You'd prefer I popped round the corner for a warrant? Left Jimmy here to keep an eye on you?"

"You can't do that."

"Try me."

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know about Trudy Gallagher. And about what happened last night. Dave, you know the score. Easiest says we get it over with."

He nodded up towards Pullen's peeling front door. "Half an hour max and we're gone."

Pullen was doing his best to figure something out. A late night and untold helpings of unlawful substances clearly didn't help. At length, another shake of the head. Winter reached forward, brushing the dandruff off the shoulders of his jacket. Humiliation always talked louder than threats.

"Nice leather, Dave." He nodded towards the door again. "After you?"

The flat was three rooms with a tiny kitchen jigsawed into the back of the lounge. Potentially, the place had a lot of potential south-facing, a hint of a view but Dave Pullen clearly preferred living in the dark.

Winter wanted to pull the curtains back and throw open the windows. He wanted to invest a bob or two in a nice air freshener and a bunch of flowers. Instead, he sank into the only armchair, wondering how many roll-ups it took to recreate the authentic stink of prison life. Maybe this flat was an exercise in nostalgia. Maybe Pullen couldn't survive without the memory of B Wing.