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.
Imber was explaining about the rest of the security arrangements. There were double locks on the main door, accessible by code and swipe card, plus the eight-foot barbed-wire fence that surrounded the entire site.
At Nick Hayder's insistence, the office was regularly swept for bugs, the cleaner had been security-checked, and every member of the five-strong team had signed a binding undertaking never to discuss the operation with anyone else. In terms of paranoia, thought Faraday, this operation was in a class of its own.
'You think we've gone over the top?' Imber was watching him carefully.
'Just a bit.'
'You saw Nick this morning? Unconscious? Legs a mess? Crushed pelvis?'
'You're telling me that was related?'
'I'm telling you we took every conceivable precaution and someone still managed to switch his lights out. Whether that's just coincidence, who can say? All we've tried to do is give ourselves a bit of privacy.'
From the adjoining office came the sound of a door opening, and then the bustle of heavy footsteps. Moments later, Faraday found himself looking at a familiar figure: low-cut dress, huge bosoms, thick gloss lipstick, long purple nails flecked with glitter, and beneath the mountainous body a pair of shapely legs that had never failed to take him by surprise.
'Joyce.'
'Sheriff.'
'You're part of this?' Faraday gestured round.
'Too right I am. Archivist, doughnut supplier, hangover cures and light maintenance. Plus I deal with the ruder phone calls. Unless you're nice to me, you get a spanking.' She grinned at him. 'Did I hear yes to coffee?'
Without waiting for an answer, she stepped back into the office. Imber rolled his eyes.
'You two know each other?'
'Very well. Joyce took over at Highland Road a couple of years back when Vanessa got killed.'
'And you survived?'
'More than. Joyce was priceless. Has she still got the agency for Beanie Babes?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'And German porn?'
'In spades, big Jiffy bag from Hamburg every fortnight. We get the trainee reggies queueing at the door. They think she's something else.'
'They're right. She is.'
Through the open door, Faraday could hear her singing as she sorted out mugs for the coffee. Peggy Lee had always been a favourite; regret stitched through with a silky courage.
While Imber fielded a phone call, Faraday perched himself on the edge of a nearby desk. Joyce had disappeared from Highland Road after a cancer scare. Faraday had phoned her a couple of times, checking on the progress of the radiotherapy, but she'd always trivialised the whole thing the way you might dismiss a headache. Sure there was a little lump. Everyone got them. No big deal.
Faraday had never been quite sure whether this optimism of hers was uniquely American or whether she was simply being brave, but either way to his eternal shame Joyce had dropped out of his life, forgotten beneath the
