his birding magazines.
Already, the events of the day seemed to have happened to someone else.
Too much introspection, he thought. Too much time wasted demanding more from life than anyone could reasonably expect. Truth was, blokes like him coppers, detectives couldn't afford the luxury of thinking too hard, worrying too much, not if they wanted to get through in one piece. The little insight that Nigel Phillimore had unearthed was spot on. Grip was more important than anything else.
He raised his second mug of tea in a private tribute to the cleric, recognising how skilfully he'd handled their teatime encounter. The best counsellors, like the best detectives, never bullied you with too many questions. Instead, like a good helmsman, they supplied a thought here and there, tiny adjustments on the tiller, until you suddenly found yourself voicing a truth you'd failed to notice under all the other crap. Grip, he thought again.
Later, the concert over, he checked the phone. It was Willard. He wanted to know that they were set for tomorrow. 'No surprises' was one of his trademark expressions.
With a glance at his watch, Faraday called him back, glad he'd never made it to Willard's Old Portsmouth house. Bothering him with today's nonsense would have been a real imposition.
'That you, Joe?' Willard had evidently been asleep.
'Just returning your call, sir.'
'Anything happened?'
'Nothing.'
'We're OK, then? Tomorrow at twelve?'
'I'll be there.'
'Anything else?'
'No, sir.'
'Thank Christ for that.'
Willard rang off, leaving Faraday at the foot of the stairs. He stood motionless for a full minute, listening to the house breathing around him. The wind had got up again, and he could hear the slap-slap of halyards from the nearby dinghy park. At length, from out on the harbour, came the peeping of a flock of oystercatchers squabbling over a late supper. Birds with attitude, Faraday told himself, and a certain sense of purpose. He smiled at the thought, then began to climb the stairs.
Forty Below was bursting by the time Winter made it to Gunwharf.
Booking Leggat into the Bridewell had taken longer than he'd anticipated. The queue for the Custody Sergeant was already five deep by half past eight, and even the discovery of a sizeable stash of uncut Colombian the contents of four Merchant Navy-class engines, each sealed in its plastic evidence bag failed to shift the backlog.
Winter had mopped up the time with a second call to Cathy Lamb. She was mystified by his request that she talk to P amp;O in the morning, but wrote down the name he mentioned. Thanks to her husband Pete, she had a direct line to a woman called Penny who ran the ferry company's PR department. She and Pete both sailed Lasers from the Lee-on-the Solent club and if anyone could confirm the number of a pre-booked outside cabin in the name of Valentine then it would be her.
'What next?' Cathy had enquired.
'Going home, boss. Long day.'
Now, eyeing the mass of clubbers queuing for Forty Below, Winter calculated his chances of talking himself in on a freebie. Entry was 15, an outrageous sum, but the last thing he wanted to use was his warrant card. A portly middle-aged gent in an MS suit was clue enough.
Why should he make it really easy for the bastards?
At the door, he found himself suddenly engulfed by a party of middle-aged swingers fresh from a birthday celebration in a nearby restaurant. They'd pre-booked entry to the club's V.I.P suite and, for the second time that night, Winter knew that his luck was in.
'Cheers, mate.' Winter patted the doorman on the shoulder, briefly pretending he was as pissed as the rest of them. 'Happy days, eh?'
Inside, the noise was deafening. Winter stuck with his new friends until he was well clear of the door, then peeled off. The club was cavernous, the size of an aircraft hangar. Bodies whirled around each other, a blur of arms and legs, and Winter found himself raked by regular bursts of strobe lighting, a splatter of mauves and greens.
Half an hour of this, he thought, and you'd be begging for mercy.
A dispute over a spilled drink brought the music to a brief halt.
Security waded in, sorting out a drunken youth with a gelled Mohican and marching him towards the door. Then the DJ bent to his decks again, announcing something even louder, with a pumping bass that brought whoops of approval.
By now, Winter was methodically searching the room, a dozen dancers at a time, hunting for Suttle. He found Trudy first. She was over towards the long brushed-metal crescent of the bar, dancing with a girl her own age, arms up, fingers splayed, eyes closed. Winter edged slowly round her, eyes scanning left and right, at last recognising the slender figure of Suttle as he threaded a path through the dancers towards Trudy.
Winter intercepted him. Suttle, for a second, hadn't a clue who he was.
'My shout.' Winter was easing him towards the bar. 'What do you want?'
'What are you doing here?'
'Favour.'
'What?'
'Favour!' Winter yelled.
He abandoned the bar and indicated the nearby lavatories. Suttle shot him a look but came just the same. It was quieter here, with a mill of youths gel ling-up at the mirrors over the line of hand basins. Beside the contraceptive machine at the door, Winter broke the bad news.
'Young Trudy,' he said. 'I need her key.'
'What key?'
'The key to that flat across the road, Misty's place.'
Suttle stared at him, bemused.
'So why ask me?'
'I want you to nick it out of her bag.'
'You're mad. You must be off your head. Why would I do that?'
'Because I just asked you.'
It began to dawn on Suttle that Winter was serious.
'Why do you need it?'
'Can't tell you. Not yet.' Winter breathed in to let an enormous youth in a Liverpool shirt through. 'Let's say it's for Trudy's sake.
And yours.'
'Mine? How's that, then?'
'Just get the key, son.' Winter checked his watch. 'Give me forty-five minutes. Then I'll have it back here. OK?'
'No, it's not fucking OK. In fact it's well out of order. You can't just '
Winter caught his arm and squeezed hard.
'I nicked a guy with twelve grands' worth of charlie an hour ago,' he murmured. 'Just do what I ask, OK?'
Mention of the cocaine seizure confused Suttle still further. Was he at work or was this really Saturday night?
'All right,' he said at last. 'Stay here.'
He was back within minutes. Trudy's bunch of keys was attached to a small fluffy teddy bear, candy pink. Winter slipped them in his pocket, then checked his watch again.
'Half eleven, OK?'
Outside the club, Winter made for the bridge that led to the residential part of the development. In front of Arethusa House, he paused for a second to peer up at Misty's flat. The curtains were pulled back on the big picture windows and there was no sign of lights inside.
