makeover. The double-glazing units looked brand new and the front door was protected by a gleaming porch in white UPVC. Dawn, to Winter's amusement, hadn't been kidding about the gnomes. He stood outside the house, counting them, while the dog handler readied Pepys for the search.
'All right?'
The porch was a couple of steps from the front gate. Winter rang twice and waited. From a corner of the tiny front garden came the trickle of a water feature. The most distant of the gnomes, according to French, was incontinent. At length the door opened.
'Mrs. Leggat?' Winter showed her his warrant card.
'What's this about?' She was staring at the panting dog.
Winter produced the search warrant and began to explain but she cut him short.
'I'm not having that thing in here. Not with Treacle around.'
Treacle was her cat, an enormous tom which was standing in the hall, its back arched, hissing. Winter suggested Treacle take a walk in the garden. Cat or no cat, they were coming in.
The woman looked at him a moment, then turned and shooed the cat towards a door at the back. She was a big woman who didn't suit jeans.
Winter and French stepped inside. They'd call the dog in later.
'Barry around?'
'He's in the bath.'
'Get him out of there, will you? Tell him not to flush the loo or empty the bath. Second thoughts, I'll do it.'
The expression on the woman's face sent Winter up the narrow stairs.
The house was spotless. Winter's taste didn't run to Regency wallpaper or Tiffany lamps but the place was plainly cherished. The bathroom door was at the end of the upstairs landing. Winter could hear the splash of water and the blare of a radio with the volume turned up.
Guests on some phone-in programme were discussing the Portsmouth game.
Preston had been rubbish, the caller was saying. Pompey should have hammered them.
Winter pushed inside and plucked a towel from the rail behind the door.
Leggat was sitting in the bath, washing his hair.
'Out.' Winter threw the towel at him and nodded at the open door.
'Now.'
'Who the fuck are you?' Leggat had shampoo in his eyes. It was several seconds before he recognised the face looking down at him.
'DC Winter. We met this morning.'
'You're Filth?' Leggat looked astonished, then outraged. 'How come '
Winter hauled him upright in the bath.
'We'll start upstairs,' he said briskly. 'Best if you're there too.'
Back on the landing, the woman barred the way to the bedroom at the front. She was even bigger than Winter had thought.
'Mrs…?' Winter smiled at her.
'Comfort. And it's Ms.' She was looking at Leggat. 'If this is what I think it is…' The warning was all the more effective for being unspoken. Leggat, dripping suds onto the carpet, wound the towel round his waist and began to protest.
'We've got a warrant.' Winter cut him short. 'I showed your missus.'
'Missus?' It was the woman again. 'Since when have I been your missus?'
'Don't fucking ask me. I was just having a bath.'
Winter took him by the elbow and steered him round the woman as she stepped back, trying to avoid physical contact.
'It's the one at the end,' she said, 'if you're looking for his room.'
Leggat's bedroom must have recently belonged to a teenage girl. There were luminous stars on the ceiling and no one had bothered to remove the torn-out photos of Robbie Williams and Jude Law Blu-tacked to the wallpaper. After the rest of the house, thought Winter, this room was a doss.
'Do you want to help us out here?' Winter was looking at Leggat. 'Only it'd be nice to leave the floorboards in one piece.'
'You bloody dare.' The woman was standing in the open doorway.
'Try me.' Winter nodded beyond her. French had appeared on the landing. He was a tall man, an ex-para, and he carried the crowbar with a certain authority.
Leggat had found himself a pullover and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. He sat down on the bed, refusing to say another word. After the spasm of anger in the bathroom, he looked defeated.
'Try the wardrobe.' The woman had folded her enormous arms. 'He's always poking around in there.'
Winter stepped across to the MFI wardrobe in the corner. Various bits of clothing were stacked on the shelves down one side. A velvet suit hanging at the front of the rack had suffered at the hands of the dry cleaners.
'Drawer at the bottom. Where he keeps his toys.' The woman again.
Winter knelt on the carpet. The drawer was a tight fit and the whole wardrobe rocked as he wrestled it open. Inside, to his surprise, he found half a dozen model railway engines, die-cast self-assemblies in metal, nestled on a carefully fitted oblong of green baize. Each of the steam engines was mounted on a single length of track. OO gauge, thought Winter, lifting one out.
'You make these?'
Leggat nodded. He'd found a spent match from somewhere and was cleaning the dirt from under his nails.
'Merchant Navy class.' Winter turned the model over. 'Beautifully painted, really nice. They got motors inside?'
'No.'
'Just for show, then?'
'Yeah.'
French had joined Winter in front of the wardrobe.
'Look.' He'd found a set of jeweller's tools in a plastic wallet.
Winter glanced at the proffered screwdriver then turned the engine over. Underneath, a line of four tiny screws held the body to the chassis. Look hard, and you could see the tiny scratch marks around the head of each of the screws. Winter held the engine to his ear and then gave it a shake. Nothing.
He glanced across at Leggat again.
'Must have packed it really tight.' Winter held out the screwdriver.
'Best if you do the honours.'
At nine o'clock, Faraday rang for a cab. Half a pint of coffee and a couple of minutes under the cold shower in Eadie's bathroom had restored more than his balance. When the cab arrived, he left the TV and lights on, pulled the door shut, and made his way downstairs. On the journey across to the Bargemaster's House he sat in silence in the back, nodding along to the cabbie's choice of music. Neil Young, he thought. Nice.
Home at last, he closed the front door behind him and checked the phone for messages, then shortened the response time to three rings. In the kitchen, with a comforting briskness, he cleared up the last of J-J's debris, binning the remains of a bacon sandwich before preparing himself a cheese omelette. Realising how hungry he was, he cut four thick slices of bread and dropped two into the toaster. There was a jar of lime pickle in the fridge, a tin of baked beans in the cupboard over the sink, and half a bagful of wilting rocket in the vegetable rack. Sitting in the lounge with the curtains back, he demolished the meal in minutes. Out on the blackness of the harbour, he watched the lights of a fishing boat, or perhaps a yacht, pushing slowly out towards the harbour narrows and the open sea.
When the phone went, he ignored it. He made himself a pot of tea and added an extra spoonful of sugar to the waiting mug. Full now, and surprisingly content, he switched on the radio and surfed the presets until he found a concert. Berlioz. Romeo and Juliet. He laughed at the irony, genuinely amused, and wrestled his favourite chair closer to the view. Settling back, he kicked off his shoes and rested his feet on the low table where he normally kept
