'Of course, yeah.' She nodded. 'Of course I wondered.'
'So what's the answer?'
'I'm telling you, I don't know.' She tried to focus on another table across the restaurant, and then stifled a hiccough. 'He's an older guy,' she said at last. 'They know how to listen sometimes, older guys. Bit of sympathy, bit of a shoulder, know what I mean?'
Winter was watching her carefully, remembering Trudy at lunchtime in the Gumbo Parlour. Mother and daughter had fallen out, big time, and Trudy seemed to know exactly where to put the blame.
Misty was splashing yet more Mateus into her glass. Winter hadn't seen a bottle disappear so fast since the last time they met.
'What happened to that nice motor dealer Trude used to live with?' he said at last. 'Mike Valentine, wasn't it? Up in Waterlooville?'
'Pass.'
'You're telling me you don't know?'
'I haven't a clue. I've told you, I can't get a word out of her. Who she gives it to is a mystery to me. Always has been.'
'But she came back to live with you, Mist. And she did that because she must have fallen out with Valentine. There's no way you didn't ask her. I don't believe it.'
'Bollocks did I ask her. If you knew the first thing about Trude you'd know she keeps herself to herself. It was like living with a stranger, if you want the truth. Just a shame she hadn't got anywhere else to go. Fucking gloom bag.'
'She's angry, Mist. Angry at you. Now why would that be?'
'No idea. Ask her.'
'I did.'
'When?' The alarm in her eyes told Winter he was getting warm.
'Lunchtime, Mist. Today.'
'And what did she say?'
'She didn't. And she wouldn't, my love, because she's careful when she opens her mouth. Unlike her mum.'
He held her eyes over the table. Alarm had given way to a cold fury.
Misty got to her feet, clutched the table to steady herself, then yelled at the waiter. She wanted a taxi. She'd had enough of talking to this wanker. In fact she'd had enough of everything.
Winter gazed up at her, wondering how far to take the rest of the conversation. Aqua would have a cab here in moments. Just time to take a punt or two.
'Mike Valentine's in deep with Bazza, Mist.' He leaned back in the chair. 'Maybe shagging someone that close isn't such a great idea.'
'You mean Trude?'
'No, love.' He offered her a matey smile. 'I mean you.'
It was gone eleven by the time Sarah made it round to the flat in Old Portsmouth. She'd spent the last couple of hours at the Students'
Union, celebrating the end of the first draft of her degree dissertation. There was still stuff to do, lots of stuff, but the shape of the thing was there and fifteen thousand plus on the word count deserved a couple of pints of cider.
She kept Daniel's spare keys in a special pocket in her day sack. She stepped in through the street door and made her way upstairs. Outside Daniel's flat, she paused and knocked. This time of night, unless a miracle had happened, he'd be dead to the world, but it still felt more comfortable to announce her presence.
When there was no answer she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open. The flat was in darkness, but the moment she switched on the light she saw that the furniture had been rearranged. This, she knew at once, was confirmation that the video crew had been round. The way the armchair had been positioned nice sense of depth behind the interviewee was exactly what she would have done.
'Dan?'
There was no response. She hesitated a moment, wondering whether to leave him to it. He'd be in bed by now, bound to be, and it might be better to come back tomorrow to find out how the taping had gone. With luck, the whole experience something new in his life might have given him a bit of a nudge. He might even have offered the kind of performance, the kind of analysis, she knew lay within him. That's why the smack was such a tragedy. The guy had a brain. The guy was clever. She'd never met anyone so thoughtful, and so articulate.
She began to turn to leave, then had second thoughts. His bedroom was down the corridor. She paused outside the open door. In the faint spill of light from the lounge, she could just make out the shape of his body, prone beneath the duvet. There was something else, too. A terrible smell.
'Dan?'
The smell was vomit. She knew it.
'Dan? Are you OK?'
Nothing. Her hand found the light switch beside the door. Daniel was lying on his back, his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. A thick stream of vomit had caked on his face, on the side of his neck, on his shoulder.
'Dan?' Her voice began to falter. 'Dan…?'
Chapter seven
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 04.40
The first mid-March London-bound train leaves Portsmouth and Southsea town station at 04.38. This particular morning, the trickle of early commuters included one of the city's two MPs, a cheerfully resilient Lib Dem who never tired of pushing Portsmouth's new image as the south coast's must-visit heritage attraction.
Pompey, he'd recently assured a visiting journalist from one of the broadsheet Sunday supplements, had at last shed its post-war reputation for poverty, planning mistakes, and limitless aggression. This was no longer the city where a shopping centre the Tricorn was annually voted Europe's Ugliest Building. Neither were Friday nights infamous for sailor-bashing and huge helpings of recreational violence. On the contrary, thanks to inward investment and a forward-looking council, the city was fast acquiring a well-earned reputation for meshing the old and the new. The historic naval dockyard offered a world-class collection of antique warships. The harbour had been given a multi-million-pound refurb. And in the shape of the Spinnaker Tower, the new Gunwharf development would soon boast the tallest structure in southern England. Portsmouth, in short, was on the rise.
The MP, already late for the 04.38, found himself amongst a gaggle of fellow passengers halted on the concourse by a line of Police Caution tape. Peering over the shoulder of a WPC, he watched two ambulance paramedics bending over a body slumped at the foot of one of the turnstile entries. The youth was wearing jeans and a red football shirt. There were livid splashes of blood around his scuffed trainers, and a brief glimpse of his face revealed the kind of damage you'd associate with a high-impact car smash. Only when the WPC moved, did the MP realise that one of the youth's wrists was shackled to the turnstile by a pair of handcuffs.
Pressed for details, the WPC did her best. The fire brigade were on their way to deal with the handcuffs. The paramedics were confident the young man would survive the trip to hospital. As so often with these incidents, the damage appeared worse than it probably was.
'These incidents?' The MP had noticed a blood-soaked pillowslip on the concourse beside one of the kneeling paramedics. 'What incidents?'
'Can't really say, sir.' The WPC was looking grim. 'Except it's getting worse.'
Faraday awoke to an empty bed. He lay there for a moment, gazing up at the ceiling, tuning in to the cries of the early-morning seagulls.
Living in the Bargemaster's House beside Langstone Harbour, he could map the view from his window by a medley of different calls. The piping of red shanks and the bubbling call of a flock of oyster catchers would suggest low tide on the mud flats but Eadie's se afront location lacked that kind of variety. A morning like this you had to put up with the angry squawk of black-headed gulls battling for their share of pavement debris from last night's take-
