living proof that crime serious crime paid.
Faraday, unlike many other local detectives, had never had any firsthand dealings with the man, but his control of the city's cocaine and ecstasy market had been so total, so carefully secured, that it sometimes seemed impossible to come across a drugs-related crime that didn't, in the end, link back to Mackenzie. Over the years the man had become a legend. He gloried in his notoriety, in his reputation, and the more visibly successful he became, the more it seemed to some that the forces of law and order had simply given up. Bazza, as one DC had once remarked, was a bit like the weather. Always there.
Watching Imber, Faraday was more heartened by this sudden development that he could possibly express. Like others in the force, he'd been bewildered by Mackenzie's seeming immunity, failing to understand why he'd never been taken on. Slowly, this bewilderment had turned to frustration, then anger, then to his own quiet shame — resignation. In contemporary policing, he'd finally concluded, certain battles simply weren't worth fighting. Maybe it was a question of resources. Maybe it was the pressure of a million other things to do. Either way, Bazza seemed to have slipped effortlessly into a prosperous middle age, well connected, beyond reach, a role model for every little scroat in the city.
Until, it seemed, now.
Imber was talking about a recent trip to Gibraltar. Faraday touched him lightly on the arm, struck by a sudden thought.
'How come Nick managed to keep the lid on this?'
'I'm not with you.'
'His office is next to mine. I know he's always shutting the door but there are limits. Surely…?'
Imber glanced at Willard. Willard hadn't taken his eyes off Faraday.
There was a long silence.
'You're telling me Tumbril's run from somewhere else?'
'That's right.'
'Another nick?'
'No.'
'Why not?' Faraday looked from one to the other. 'You're serious?'
Chapter three
WEDNESDAY, 19 MARCH 2OO3, O9.41
Winter loathed hospitals. Ever since he'd been a kid, they'd represented authority. People who'd tell you what to do. People who'd strip you half naked and take the most amazing liberties. People who'd hurt you. A couple of years back, he'd lost his wife to the men in white coats. More recently, after a vehicle pursuit that had gone badly wrong, he'd spent a couple of painful days under NHS care, fantasising about Bell's whisky and the possibility of a decently-cooked spud. Show Paul Winter a hospital, and he'd be looking for the door.
The A 8c E Department, for a Wednesday morning, was already busy.
Winter showed his warrant card to the woman manning the reception desk.
'It's about last night,' he said. 'Girl called Trudy Gallagher.'
'What about her?'
'She was brought in by ambulance. Three, half three, this morning something like that. Bit of an incident.'
'And?'
'I need to talk to her.'
The woman tapped a command into her keyboard. The other side of the waiting area, Jimmy Suttle was sorting out small change for the coffee machine.
'As far as I can tell, she went.' It was the receptionist again, still gazing at the screen of her PC.
'Went? We talking the same girl?'
'Here.' The woman turned the screen towards Winter. Trudy Gallagher had been booked in at 03.48. She'd complained of a headache and period pains, and the duty streaming nurse had marked her low priority. The pre- midnight rush had thinned, but with half a dozen patients ahead of her in the queue that still meant a wait of a couple of hours. At least. r. Here and here.' Winter touched his ribcage. 'She'd been tied up half the night, terrified out of her head. She was in shock. You're telling me she just walked out?'
'We can only go on what we're told. It's her body, not ours.'
'Yeah, but…' Winter shook his head. Last night he'd known he should have ridden up to the QA with Trudy but, looking at her, he'd concluded there was no point. She was past talking, past saying anything remotely useful. They'd keep her in at the hospital, bound to. Next morning would be better. Then she'd have something to say.
'Here…' It was Suttle with the coffees. Winter ignored him.
'So where did she go?'
'No idea.'
'She give you an address?'
'Yes.' The woman was peering at a box on the screen.
'And?'
'No chance.' She gave Winter a withering look. 'You blokes ever bother with data protection?'
Winter obliged her with a smile.
'Never,' he said.
He leaned across the counter, trying to check out the screen, but she turned it away. Finally, he gave up.
'So that's it?' He pocketed his notebook. 'She arrives in an ambulance? She sits here for an hour? Then legs it?'
'That's the way it looks.'
'What about the people who dealt with her? The streaming nurse you mentioned. Where do I find her?'
'At home, Mr. Winter.' The woman was already clearing her screen for the next patient. 'Asleep.'
Winter phoned Cathy Lamb from the car park. Back from her head-to-head with Secretan, she'd sent him a text message. Secretan was looking for an action plan, some clue to where the inquiry might be headed next, and the DI wanted to know about Trudy Gallagher.
'It's fine, boss. Favour?'
'What does 'fine' mean?'
'We're setting up to take a statement. Could you do a CIS check for me? Dave Pullen?'
'What about him?'
'I need a current address.' '93 Bystock Road.' There were limits to Cathy's patience. 'You were there last night.'
'That's his rental property. He lives somewhere else. Has to.'
There was a pause while Lamb accessed the Criminal Intelligence System.
Simple checks like these took less than a minute.
'They're giving 183 Ashburton Road, Southsea,' she said at last.
'Flat 11.'
Driving back into the city, Winter couldn't rid himself of the image of Trudy Gallagher crouched in the bare bedroom minutes after Suttle had taken his penknife to the plastic cable ties. Last time he'd seen her, a couple of years back, she'd been a dumpy little schoolgirl with a passion for Big Macs and anything featuring Leonardo di Caprio. Her mum, with more money than sense, had given her a big, fat allowance and let nature take its path.
Now, a stone thinner, a couple of inches taller, young Trudy had stepped into womanhood in the dodgiest company imaginable. First, according to a trusted local source, had come a live-in relationship with a Farlington car dealer twice her age. Then, for reasons the source didn't begin to understand, Trudy had picked up with Dave Pullen. Share a bed with that kind of arse-wipe, thought Winter, and you shouldn't be surprised by the consequences.
Last night in Bystock Road, the neighbour had come in with a couple of blankets while Trudy had huddled in
