The number answered. Eadie asked to speak to the coroner. Seconds later, he was on the line.
'Martin? It's Eadie Sykes.'
Eadie reached forward, turning down the volume on the editing machine.
Martin Eckersley was relatively new to the city. Eadie had met him several months ago, finding a powerful ally in her bid to raise funding for the video. Like her, he worried about the remorseless spread of hard drugs. And like her, he believed in telling kids the truth about their real-life consequences. Just now, he was playing catch-up on a suspicious overnight death in Leigh Park. Why didn't they meet for a quick bite at lunchtime? Earlier rather than later?
Eckersley occupied an office in the city centre. Eadie named a cafe-bar several doors away, promising not to waste his precious time.
'No problem. Table in the back corner? I'll be there at half twelve.'
The line went dead and Eadie looked up to find J-J standing in the open doorway. He looked drawn and pale, even gaunter than usual, and for a crazy moment she wondered whether he hadn't helped himself to one of Daniel Kelly's wraps.
J-J couldn't tear his eyes off the screen. At the third attempt, the needle found the vein. Eadie was watching him carefully, knowing that sooner or later she had to break the news. Emotionally, J-J was one of the most exposed people she'd ever met. In professional terms, she'd managed to turn that to their mutual advantage potential interviewees warmed to J-J's openness, his absolute lack of guile but there'd occasionally come bleaker moments when situations had overwhelmed him.
Last night had been one of them. The news that Daniel was dead would doubtless be another.
On screen, Daniel was stumbling down the hall towards the bedroom. J-J stiffened as he watched the student at the open door, gazing down at the clutter on the floor, trying to puzzle his way around the abandoned duvet. The empty syringe in his forearm was plainly visible, the pale flesh ribboned with a single scarlet thread.
Eadie waited until the sequence came to an end, then reached forward and turned off the machine. The recognised sign for someone dying is a downward movement, both hands, fingers shaped like a revolver. Instead, Eadie opted instead for a single finger across her throat. Under the circumstances, as a form of suicide, it seemed strangely appropriate.
'So what happened?' J-J was still staring at the blank screen.
'Sarah found him. After we'd gone.'
'How long after?'
'Hours after.' She paused. 'It wasn't our fault.'
Eadie got to her feet, interposing her body between J-J and the monitor, but the moment she put her arms round him she knew it was a mistake. She could feel the stiffness in him, the hostility. He wanted no part of this. Not last night. And not now. She looked up at him, wondering what else she could say, what might soften this terrible news, but J-J had already broken free.
'You want a coffee? Something to eat?'
J-J shook his head, his eyes returning to the screen.
'Where is he now? Daniel?'
'At the mortuary. St. Mary's.'
He nodded, absorbing the news.
'They'll cut him up?' One bony hand touched his eye, then circled his stomach. 'Look inside?'
'Yes.'
'Then what?'
'I don't know.'
J-J collapsed into the editing chair. Then he looked up at her and for the first time in their relationship Eadie saw a new expression in his eyes. He didn't trust her. She held his gaze for a moment, stony-faced, aware of a mounting anger of her own, a small, hot spark that seemed to grow and grow.
The numbers she'd scribbled earlier were on a pad beside her day sack.
She reached for the phone, turning her back on J-J, recognising the voice that answered.
'Rick Stapleton? Eadie Sykes.'
The detective took a second or two to place the name. Then he said he'd appreciate half an hour of her time. He understood she'd been involved in some kind of video shoot with a Mr. Daniel Kelly. He needed to check out one or two things, maybe take a statement.
'Of course.' Eadie checked the video dubs were complete, then glanced at her watch. 'Will this morning be OK? My office?'
She gave him the Ambrym address, and agreed 11.30. By the time she put the phone down and turned round, J-J had gone.
DC Suttle found the young Scouser's car at the end of Jellicoe Place, a grim cul-de-sac off Southampton Row. A red Cavalier with rusting sills and a dented bonnet, it was parked at an angle with one rear wheel on the pavement. For more than an hour he and Winter had been phoning in registration numbers for PNC checks, working slowly through the Portsea estate. M492XBK, to Suttle's delight, had produced a double hit.
Winter was at the open end of the cul-de-sac, waiting for news on a nearby J reg Sierra.
Suttle was pointing to the Cavalier. 'Nicked last month from a car park in Birkenhead. Plus it's been flagged by Major Crimes.'
At the mention of Major Crimes, Winter abandoned his mobile conversation with the PNC clerk. Like every other detective in Portsmouth, he'd been aware of the hit and run that had hospitalised Nick Hayder. Clues to the registration had been circulated to every officer in the city, together with a heads-up on the possible make.
'The fucking Cavalier.' He whistled softly. 'Bingo.'
Suttle returned to the car and peered in through the windows, Winter beside him. The interior was a mess: two pairs of trainers, a copy of the Daily Star, an open box of Shopper's Choice tissues, empty cans of Stella, a discarded pizza box, a litter of CDs, and tucked behind the driver's seat a bag of what looked like laundry. The radio was missing from the hole in the dash and the tax disc was eight months out of date.
'Here.' Suttle was looking down at the road behind the boot.
Winter followed his pointing finger. Splatter patterns from the dark stain on the tarmac led away towards the kerb.
'Hammered the little bastard.' Winter was searching for nearby CCTV cameras. 'No wonder he was in such a state.'
Suttle was already back on his mobile. The DS on the crime squad was out on inquiries. Mention of Cathy Lamb's name drew Winter to Suttle's side.
'You're going to be talking to her? Cath?'
'Yeah.'
'Don't mention the business with the lad you tailed last night, Faraday's boy. Not yet anyway.'
'Why not?' Suttle was staring at him, bewildered.
'Just don't, that's all. Has the skipper seen your pocketbook?'
'No.'
'Good. I've just got a couple of calls to make. Then everything'll be sweet.'
'But ' 'Just do it. Call it a favour. That asking too much?' He shot Suttle a grin, then returned to the car, concentrating on the bumpers and radiator grille.
Suttle bent to the phone again. When he finally got hold of Cathy Lamb, she told him to stay with the vehicle while she raised Scenes of Crime. They'd need to go through it inch by inch to establish ownership.
Suttle mentioned the Major Crimes interest. There was a moment's silence while Cathy Lamb computed the possible implications.
'You're telling me we might be able to link this vehicle to Nick Hayder?'
'Yeah.' Suttle was eyeing Winter. 'You should see the state of the bonnet.'
'Excellent. I'll talk to Major Crimes. Keep the kids off the car.'
Cathy Lamb rang off. Winter was squatting in front of the Cavalier.
Careful not to touch anything, he indicated an area beneath one of the headlights. The metalwork had been recently attacked by someone using a wire scourer, the circular gouge marks clearly visible.
