Graham Hurley - Cut to Black

"So where is she? That nice Trudy?"

"Ain't got a clue."

"You're lying, Dave. She was in that doss house of yours, well fucking kippered. You'd have known about that. They'd have told you."

"Who says?"

"Me. These Scouse kids are in the wind-up business. They send little messages. That's what she was, Dave: a message."

Avoiding Winter's gaze, Pullen limped across to the kitchen and opened a drawer. Two fat tablets needed half a glass of water from the tap.

"Headache?"

"Migraine."

"Same thing." Winter paused while Pullen swallowed the tablets. "So tell me about the Scousers. They weren't gentle, you know. Or has she told you that already?"

Pullen didn't answer. Suttle was over in the shadows, inspecting a headline Sellotaped to the wall. The back page had been ripped from The News, the city's daily paper.

"Super Blues?" Suttle queried.

Pullen turned on him, a spectral presence in the gloom.

"You got a problem with that?"

"Yeah."

"Like what?"

"Like Pompey are shit. Half the fucking team are on a bus pass."

Watching from the armchair, Winter started to laugh. He loved this boy, loved him. There was a kind of madness in so much of what he did.

Like Winter himself, he pushed and pushed until something snapped.

"Shit?" Pullen was outraged. "Top of the Nationwide? Top all fucking season? How does that work, then?"

"You'll find out, mate. If you ever get to the Premiership."

"So what are you, then?"

"Saints."

"Scummer?" Pullen started to laugh. "Well, fuck me. No wonder you end up in the Filth."

Winter struggled to his feet. There was a pile of twenty-four-can slabs of Stella wedged against the open door, doubtless trophies from a Cherbourg booze run. Stepping carefully round the tinnies, he disappeared for a moment or two. Seconds later, he was back with something black and boxy in his hand. When he switched on the overhead light, Suttle recognised it as a car radio.

"State of the art, Dave." Winter examined the back. "And security marked."

"It's legit."

"I'm sure it is. What about the rest?" Winter caught Suttle's eye and nodded towards the door. "Only we've been having this problem with vehicle breaks. Figures have gone through the roof. You wouldn't believe the grief it's giving our Performance Manager."

Suttle was back with a cardboard box. After the first five car radios, he gave up counting.

"Worth a bit, eh Dave?" It was Winter again. "No wonder you never invited us in."

"She hasn't been here."

"I don't believe you."

"It's true. Not since a couple of days back."

"Then where is she?"

"Fuck knows."

"You've got a mobile number?"

"She never answers."

"You had a row or something? Bit of a tiff?"

Silence.

Winter consulted his watch, then settled back in the armchair, steepled his fingers over the swell of his belly, and closed his eyes.

Pullen stirred.

"Her fucking fault," he muttered. "Little slag."

"What did she do to you, Dave?" Winter's eyes were still closed. "Ask for a decent conversation?"

"Bollocks to that," Pullen said hotly. "She can talk her fucking gob off when she wants to. Doesn't take much. Couple of Smirnoffs in Forty Below and you can help your fucking self."

Forty Below was a cafe-bar and nightclub complex in Gunwharf Quays, immensely popular for chilling out.

"Was that the way they did it?"

"Who?"

"Your Scouser friends? Tenner across the bar and a car ride when she's up for it? Pop round to Dave's place? Listen to some music? Is that what happened?"

"Haven't a clue."

"Not worried? Not the least concerned? They're taking the piss, Dave.

They're telling you you're not up to it any more. Whatever's yours, they're helping themselves. And if you think it begins and ends with young Trudy then you're even more stupid than you look."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bollocks you don't. It's not about fanny, you know it's not. It's business, Dave, and we're not talking nicked fucking car radios. I don't know how much charlie Bazza trusts you with these days but something tells me your dealing days might be over. Trudy was a redundancy notice, Dave. These kids are telling you you're past it.

You with me? Or am I going too fast?"

"You're off your head."

"Am I?" Winter got to his feet again. He beckoned Pullen closer. "We paid these kids a visit last night, Dave. I won't bore you with the details but we came away with more Stanley knives than you'd ever believe. You know all those rumours about local dealers getting slapped around? Kidnapped? Cut? All true, Dave."

Pullen retreated towards the kitchen. He didn't want to hear any of this. Winter, warming up now, pinned him in a corner.

"You've got a choice, Dave, you and your mates. My boss wants these kids out of the city. I dare say Bazza does, too. We can either go the official route, in which case you'll be giving me a statement, telling me everything you know. Or you can sort something out on your own behalf. Either way, me and Jimmy here are having these." Winter picked up one of the radios. "We've got a whole squad on vehicle break-ins. Operation Cobra. You might have seen it in the paper.

Shall I spread the good word? Tell my mates you've got the beers in?"

Winter let the message register, then told Suttle to repack all the radios in the cardboard box. A visit to the tip that Pullen used as a bedroom produced more booty, enough to fill a pillowslip. On his way out of the flat, back in the sunshine at the top of the fire escape, Winter made Pullen write out Trudy Gallagher's mobile number. He studied it a moment, then folded it into his pocket.

"Best to Bazza, eh?" He gave Pullen a little punch on the shoulder, picked up the pillowslip, and followed Suttle down towards the street.

Mid morning, the conference with Willard over, Faraday followed Brian Imber's Volvo estate out of the parking lot at the back of the Kingston Crescent police station. At the start of the motorway, Imber indicated left, leaving the roundabout for the Continental Ferry Port. North of the port complex lay a cluster of naval establishments known locally as Whale Island. At the far end of the causeway connecting the island to the mainland, Imber coasted to a halt at the red and white barrier. A squaddie approached both cars, an assault rifle slung from his neck.

Faraday wound down his window. Imber had already given him a pass but Faraday had yet to open the envelope. When he did so, he found himself looking at a recent head and shoulders shot taken for an out-of-county inquiry. It showed a grizzled white male in his mid forties with a mop of greying curly hair. The expression on his face, at first glance, gave nothing away but the few people who knew him well would have wondered about the little creases around the eyes. This was a man trying to gauge exactly what awaited him next. Small wonder.

The squaddie glanced at the pass, checked the image, and then waved Faraday through.

Imber was in the nearby car park. Faraday brought the Mondeo to a halt beside him, pocketing the pass. Imber nodded towards a low, brick-built structure a couple of hundred metres away. Beyond lay the harbour and the naval dockyard.

"Welcome to Tumbril." Imber was enjoying this. "It's a bit cramped, I'm afraid, but we've done our best."

The building belonged to the Regulating School, the establishment charged with training the navy's police force. A temporary arrangement with the Admiralty, financed from the Tumbril budget, paid for an open-plan office on the south side of the building which was normally used as a lecture theatre. Attached to this was a smaller interview room, which now housed the inquiry's ever-growing archive. Carefully labelled files crowded a wall full of shelves. There were also three battered filing cabinets, all fitted with heavy-duty locks.